Judging a Book by Its Cover

I have never been ashamed to admit that I am the kind of person who likes judge a book by its cover - here by "book", I do not mean metaphorically and I really mean "book" in its literal sense; and I don't see any wrongs in doing so. Why would any sensible author or publisher allow his/her book to be covered in something that evoke imaginations that run inconsistent with, contradictory or even contrary to its content? Surely there are cases where the cover, no matter how well-designed and beautifully crafted, falls short of doing justice to the brilliance promised by the content. That is fine, for a cover should only offer a glimpse to what is about to unfold; it is supposed to tantalize the casual reader's interest to uncover, to discover what lies ahead.

I recently bought three little books of the Great Ideas series from Penguin Books, two authored by John Ruskin and one Marcel Proust. My purchase was not prompted by the famous authorship, but rather, by their beautiful, dainty covers. The photo, constrained in its two-dimensional world, does not compare to softness in touch to the caressing fingers, and the fine, uneven texture - flowers and foliage are slightly bulging so that they seem more lively than usual. And the collective beauty, when over 20 book were displayed together on the shelves with their delicately varied and pleasing color palette, was quite extraordinary.  There are altogether 60 books in the collection, everyone of which is attractive; I wish I could own all some day, but for now three are quite satisfying.

Tim Burton & Matthew Gray Gubler & Stuff

The two people above seem an unlikely couple to coexist in any textual space; however they do have something in common besides my apparent interest in them. 

I went to Tate Modern again yesterday because it was Friday and on Fridays some museums in London choose to treat their patrons by staying open late, till 10pm in Tate Modern's case (and the sandwiches in the museum cafe in late hours, like an out-of-fashion artist, decide to trade for a reduced price too.) I love museums, a passion not shared by everyone I meet - quite a pity for I think everyone should love museums, regardless of his or her level of interest in Picasso and whatnot, for three reasons. 

First, they are free, mostly, in London, unless you really die to view a current exhibition which always charges a handsome fee or your guilty conscience would never allow you to bypass the donation box placed at the museum entrance without reaching for your wallet. 

Second, most museums promise a great escape with their aesthetically pleasing and architecturally interesting, large and open spaces to urban dwellers, the majority of whom spilt their lives between dreadful office cubicles and cookie-cutter characterless apartments. Think of the lofty, light-infused great hall of the British Museum, the historic, imposing central hall of the Natural History Museum, the awe-evoking, raw, industrial Turbine Hall of Tate Modern. Think of the many varied spaces, large and small, throughout the museums, usually no short of benches, armchairs and couches eagerly inviting one to stop, sit, linger, loiter, rest, watch, appreciate, anything but to hurry and be hurried, like in shops/cafes by over-zealous and oftentimes intrusive staff. 

Last but not the least, museum shops! Commercialized art, or art merchandise, things having a lot  or little to do with art, or things priced exorbitantly in the name of art, whatever you describe it. Despicable they might be, I find them very therapeutic and soothing, which has little to do with whether you can or want to afford to buy anything. The selection, the display, the color, the space! Everything seems mesmerizingly reachable, and at the same time also seems a bit too refined to regard them in the context of one's own home.

Okay, I have digressed enough and shall return to my visit to Tate Modern, more specifically, to its store. Among a sea of glossy, beautifully-covered books, I saw this book by Tim Burton, The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories, lying there with a modest dark blue cover. I have known the book for a few years - first published in 1997, the book is 12 years old already-, and have been tempted to pick up a pricy hardcover copy in a NYC bookstore a couple of times but was never resolved enough to do it, especially after I found a full electronic copy online. I got to know the book when I didn't even know who Tim Burton was despite his fame and statue in Hollywood. I was attracted by his style of drawings and storytelling, a style very adeptly described by New York Times as:

"The Melancholy Death of Osyter Boy exquisitely conveys the pain of an adolescent outsider. Like Tim Burton's movies, the work manages to be both childlike and sophisticated, blending the innocent with the Macabre."

Seeing the book quietly snuggled among some colorful children's picture books - I highly question the appropriateness of categorizing it as children's book by Tate Modern - I was suddenly overcome by a feeling one often experiences in childhood for a long-coveted toy or chocolate bar. I brought the book to the cashier without much hesitation though it was not cheaper than the hardcover copy I came across years ago.

Here is a poem with the accompanying cartoon from the book:

The Pin Cushion Queen

Life isn't easy 

for the Pin Cushion Queen,

When she sits alone on her throne,

Pins push through her spleen.

 

This kind of morbid twist on childlike stories is easily reminiscent of the works of Edward Gorey (Gorey's entry in Wikipedia confirms the influence of Gorey on Burton's directional style), who decades before Burton's little book painted a more gruesome picture of the deaths of the "gashlycrumb tinnies". Here is one of the deaths:

Gorey is one of my favorite illustrators; but I only own two books of his: his books are hard to find,  being one excuse. I adore his dexterous and meticulous use of lines, his ability to build up an otherworldly atmosphere in which his odd characters live, his masterly use of meager words alongside his drawings. 

So why Matthew Gray Gubler? And, more important, who is he? He is nobody or a rather obscure actor/former fashion model to most people. He is Agent Spencer Reid/genius to anyone who is a fan like I am of the US TV crime drama series "Criminal Minds". He is also a quite talented sketch artist, only known to the few who happen to have visited his personal website which displays many of his works or doodles - he is the designer of the website too. The ghastly nature of his sketches supplies an interesting yet surprisingly complimentary facet to the nerdy Dr. Reid character - somehow I find it hard to separate his TV persona from his real life one; I would like to think he's playing himself though I perfectly know the real Gubler, smart he may be, is not a genius. 

So finally here is the connection between Tim Burton and Matthew Gray Gubler, that they are both in the show-biz and they both have a less-known artistic talent in drawing, sketching, illustrating, whatever you call it and an aesthetic taste in and inclination for things that are not so cute-and-cheerful. There is something else I envy in them both:  that their fame - not so much yet for MGG- as a result of their career in film or TV helps to bring to light their other artistic endeavors, which otherwise more likely than not will sink to obscurity, for neither of the two, as much as I admire them, stand great chance of prospering based solely on their drawing/sketching skills. But lucky for them, and for me too, they are keeping their day jobs. For MGG, I would buy his book if he ever decides to publish one.

伦敦倒记时

转眼间又要打点行囊，准备离开这个我还没蹲热的地方了。平日里，我们和住在英国的朋友说起伦敦，总是诸多抱怨：政府的低效率、服务业（水、电、网络，还有令人发指的英国银行）的落后、天气的多变、以及交通、物价、英国人，等等等等。每次只要有人起个头，准保不会冷场，每个人都有若干个故事，能与人分享。我们这中间，大多都住过不同国家的不同城市，所以想当然的拿伦敦与那些记忆里的城市比较，然而记忆往往有神奇的过滤作用，特别于我这样的上了一定“年龄”的越来越怀旧的老者来说，所以这种现实与回忆的比较往往是不平等，结果也是不公平的。回想纽约的日子，对于当时的现实也是抱怨诸多的，特别是和同城人在一起聊天时，抱怨甚至是必须的必然的，仿佛不这样就是过于天真过于不谙人情俗事的。只是离开了，少了现实生活的烦扰，接续以前的抱怨会显得过于愤世嫉俗和矫情，毕竟在某种意义上，你已经失去了抱怨的权力。

说回现在这个我们将离未离的伦敦，从几个礼拜前，我在心里默默的开始倒记时，不是准备最后的冲刺，而是提醒要尽量慢尽量长尽量彻底尽量温情的“住”在伦敦。

一个帖子写了n天了，还是只写了开头，都还没进入主题，即值得纪念值得热爱的伦敦的点点滴滴。其实不幸的是，离开的时候，发现这样的点滴是如此之多：

不下雨的时候，附近的小公园坐着，这样的公园在伦敦很多，小小的，夹在街道房屋店铺之间，利用着能利用的任何一块空地，有的规划齐整，有的野趣十足，大多数，里面会住有一颗古老的大树，树冠巨大，枝叶丰茂；公园总是安静的孤独的，偶尔有遛狗的，附近上班抽空出来吃午饭的，修剪枝叶打理公园的工人。阳光和云朵玩着追逐的游戏，阳光赢时，整个世界刹那发出光来，绿叶绿的发亮，红花艳的刺眼，身上的外套也要从身上滑下来。这样的阳光，带一本英国作家的书，好比Virginia Woolf的Mrs. Dalloway,去坐在公园里，好像是理所应当的。

书架上的书慢慢堆积了起来，归功最后一个月的伦敦的疯狂购书，仿佛我们马上要启程去一个没有书籍的沙漠隐居。其实看到2镑甚至1镑的价钱，不乖乖打开荷包才怪，尤其价签下的还是一本精装的出版于50年前的有历史有故事的书。Charing Cross路上的旧书店，今年又刚刚倒闭了两家，看到窗上贴的蓝色倒闭告示，心里有点小难过，也许几年后来这里，剩余的几家也会被大型连锁书店或另一家pizza hut取代了。好在最爱的一家any amount books还健在，为了她的长命，每次路过总要进去做点贡献 － 其实当我们每每用10几镑换走两袋沉甸甸的书，感觉不是贡献，倒象掳掠。

还有以步代车的时候，从家走到河边，然后选择一座桥走到河的北岸去，有时是黄色绿色相间的southwark bridge，有时是正对St Paul的总是游人如织的millennium bridge，有时走的更远些去走红色的waterloo bridge；晴天阴天，桥、河、岸都会是不同的样子。

还有悠闲的周六，去伦敦桥边的市场，看人，吃小吃。

还有坐在春天的海德公园里，看跑步的人，看情侣，看树叶，看阳光，看阳光从树叶间隙间倾泻下来。

还有。。还有。。。写不完的，有点绝望。

84 Charing Cross Road

上周五，又“恰好”路过位于Covent Garden区的Fopp书/唱片店，又“顺手”拎了两袋书回去。说是两大袋的书，其实总共花费不到30镑，其中还包括4本铜版纸加彩页的艺术类书。我们已经从这个小店搬回了几十本书了，在伦敦这个昂贵的城市，这里的书价是绝对的可亲可爱：我们淘的书基本都是2－4镑一本。这次的收获里，有一本我站在书店里读了一页就爱上的书：84 Charing Cross Road (by Helene Hanff)。这2镑银子买来的书里收集了作者（一位住在纽约的贫困的女作家）和伦敦一古旧书店的工作人员Frank Doel 及书店其他工作人员和Frank 妻子之间自1949年起跨越20余年的书信往来和由此建立起来的感人情谊。

这本书除了几十封并不冗长的书信外，没有任何一点关于书信中人物和背景的文字介绍，但这毫不妨碍我迅速的在脑海中勾画出Helene和Frank的模样以及他们的脾气秉性，一个性格粗线条、慷慨热情、直言直语、幽默犀利，一个谦和有礼、温和内敛、忠实敬业，20年来后者被前者感染感动，逐渐地也慢慢的敞露心扉，与她交流事业生活家庭的琐事。50年代英国经历2战后的物资食品匮乏，女作家不断为从未谋面的千里之外伦敦书店的工作人员邮寄火腿、鸡蛋等食品和尼龙丝袜，而她自己生活中除了买书，根本无法承担其他的奢侈品；她一生向往前往伦敦，膜拜英国文学的圣地，拜访frank 及他的家人和书店同事，但因为经济捉襟见肘，加之身体原因，此行一拖再拖，直到1969年，书店秘书写信告诉她，Frank因一场急病而去世了。书里收录的最后一封书信是helene写给去伦敦旅游的朋友的，信中她恳求：

"If you happen to pass by 84 Charing Cross Road, kiss it for me. I owe it so much."

女作家在纽约住过的两个寓所，恰巧和我先后在纽约住过的地方非常非常近，据说她最后在72街的公寓楼外，有一块铜牌，上书“Charing Cross House"，以纪念这本书和书的作者。

而书中位于84 Charing Cross Road的Marks & Co书店也早已关闭了，不过好在如今那条小街上的那一段还有一溜卖二手书的书店，新的老的，虽然很少从那里买书（因为大多旧书因为古旧珍本的原因比新书要来得昂贵），但在那些充满些许旧纸张霉味、木地板吱呀作响、书籍满登登堆到屋顶的小书店里消磨时光，就好像回到上学的时候，周六的下午在学校附近的书店里翻书的时光。

其实一直觉得书是非常美丽的物品，不用翻内容，有些书，光是封面、书名、书脊、纸张的质感、印刷的字体，就够人把玩陶醉了，可惜现在书越来越贵，大多时候只能买最便宜的简装普及版本，84 Charing Cross Road 里，作者多次用极其细腻的笔调，充满爱意的描写她收到的Frank邮寄过来的二手书，好比下面这段描写 NEWMAN (John Henry) Discourses on the Scope and Nature of University Education的first edition:

....I just never saw a book so beautiful. I feel vaguely guilty about owning it. All that gleaming leather and gold stamping and beautiful type belongs in the pine-panelled library of an English country home; it wants to be read by the fire in a gentleman's leather easy chair - not on a secondhand studio couch in a one-room hovel in a broken-down brownstone front.

还有，这本书恐怕会重新唤醒很多人蛰伏于心底的书虫吧，那些熟悉的不熟悉的或曾经熟悉后来淡忘的英国作家和作品名字，点缀于两人的书信来往中，一个索要，一个复命寻找，于是自己也无比向往他们所找寻的那些书籍和作品。Wikipedia上有人总结了此书中出现过的书籍的清单。

我还正在下载此书改编的1987年的同名电影，男主由Anthony Hopkins扮演，很符合我心目中文雅而保守的英国绅士的形象，下载两余天了，还未完成，焦急中。