Bible Design and Binding

The Case for Color (or "L'heure verte at BDB")

Yesterday I shared my dream of having two single column ESVs, the Legacy and the Clarion, rebound in as hardcovers in matching green leather, which prompted commenter J. Kru to ask after the state of my cranial health:

But... did you say GREEN? A GREEN Bible? Did you hit your head or something? that's crazy talk. Next up: the Mars Hill Study Bible, bound in chain mail.

Now I can dish it out as well as I can take it. In fact, I'd like to think I can take it even better than I can dish it out. Lest rumors of my unhinged mind take hold on the Internet, though, I thought it would be worthwhile to explain my rationale. 

If you've been a reader for any length of time, you know that I don't subscribe to the Henry Ford theory of bookbinding ("any color you want, so long as it's black"). I wouldn't have made a very good Pilgrim, assuming you believe the Pilgrims only wore black apart from their shiny shoe buckles and their big white collars. Give me color any day! Which is why I've waxed rhapsodically in the past about sights like this:

And this:

"Help! My Gutter is Crinkling!": Two Theories on An Annoying Phenomenon

While putting together a forthcoming piece on Hendrickson's facsimile edition of the 1611 KJV, I ran into our old friend "crinkle gutter." If you're not in the know, here's a quick explanation. The gutter is the crease in the center of a page spread where the paper meets the binding. If you run your finger down the gutter, the pages should be smooth. But sometimes there's a wavy quality to the pages -- your finger flattens them as it moves, producing an unattractive crinkling sound.

As you can imagine, it's rather hard to capture this "crinkle gutter" phenomenon in a photograph. Fortunately, the 1611 KJV has an interior line running parallel to the gutter. If all were well, that line would appear straight. Instead, you cansee a hiccup here and there along the length. Here's another shot that captures the problem well:

As you can see, all along the gutter there are wavy intervals. This is the calfskin edition with a Smyth-sewn binding, so presumably the intentations correspond to stitches. Theorizing about the causes behind "crinkle gutter," a number of people have suggested that it's the result of the stitching being too tight. Perhaps someone in the print factory didn't know how to set the machines for super-thin Bible paper -- or the right machines weren't available. I'm not sure. One fact in support of the theory, though, is that the hardback edition of the same Bible from Hendrickson (with a glued binding) doesn't have the problem:

Case closed? Not exactly.You see, there's another quality the sewn edition possesses that its glued counterpart doesn't, and that's stiffness in the pages themselves. Flipping through the sewn book, I observe rigid clumps of pages which actually stand out from the binding like so:

Which leads me to wonder whether paper grain is an issue. When pages are stiff and wavy at the edge, the explanation often given is that page has been folded against the grain. While most of us manage to get through life just fine without being aware of the direction paper grain runs in, printers have to pay attention to such things:

“The printer also should check to see that the imposition is such that the grain of the paper runs parallel to the backbone of the book. Folding ‘cross-grain’ on the machines creates difficulties that slow up the job and are apt to result in wrinkling or buckling in the folding, and subsequent production of an inferior book.” from A Primer in Book Production by Frank B. Myrick (1945)

Note that the grain should run parallel to the gutter -- i.e., up and down -- and that if it doesn't, the results are poor. Does that include crinkling along the gutter? Someone with more definitive knowledge of paper and printing will have to weigh in on this. But I suspect it might.

Fun with Fountain Pens

We talk a lot about what kind of pen or pencil to write in your Bible with, so ... don't try this at home. It takes a brave soul to try a fountain pen in a Bible. As I mention at my other blog, I'm a bit obsessed with fountain pens, archaic though they may seem:

When I do write in a Bible, I tend to use a Pigma Micron on a ballpoint, avoiding anything that can apply "wet" ink. In theory, though, using a fountain pen in a Bible shouldn't be a problem. After all, the Allan's Journal uses Bible paper and holds up just fine to FP ink:

On the left you can see various examples of ink in use (as well as a sad testament to what happens to one's cursive when one starts writing in block letters during junior high). On the left, note that while you can see the writing through the reverse of the page (just as you would printing in a Bible), none of the ink has bled through. Now, if you're inclined to try this, my recommendation is that you use a Fine (F) or even Extra Fine (EF) nib. These put less ink on the page and give you a cleaner, finer line, allowing you to write smaller, in proportion to the small print in the typical Bible. 

For more thoughts on fountain pens, check out "The Craftsman's Pleasure in His Tools."

Open Flat

Of the many attributes I appreciate in a good binding, the one that makes the most difference when it comes to actual use is the ability to open flat.

I don't know enough about the intricacies of bookbinding to say for certain why some books open flat and others don't. It's not a question of cost. There are cheap Bibles that open flat and expensive ones that don't. Perhaps the construction of the text block makes the difference, though again, I've handled sewn bindings that open flat and others that won't. A glued paperback with a softcover will open flat, too, assuming the text block has some weight to it. Some have suggested that the tightness of the binding plays a role, which makes sense to me: with use, I've seen Bibles that wouldn't open flat start to do so. One of the things I love about Cambridge's Pitt Minion (pictured here) is that it springs open and stays flat right out of the box.

If I were publishing Bibles, this is one of the attributes I'd strive for in every edition. Whether they are luxury or economy editions, with enough care for detail and proportion, there's no reason why a Bible shouldn't open flat.

Slipcase Nostalgia

I might be shallow enough to author a blog about the design and manufacture of Bibles (as opposed to the content within), but even I don't waste much time on the packaging they come in. While I like to find vintage Bibles still in the box, that has more to do with the information printed on the box than any quality in the packaging itself. Sometimes publishers stick their high-end editions in fussy packaging -- clamshell boxes with magnetized flaps, sometimes with synthetic leather upholstery to boot. To be honest, it seems like a waste to me. Something simple and sturdy to protect the contents is all I require, like the simple blue box that R. L. Allan uses. 

There is, however, an exception, one example of nice packaging I dearly miss: the Cambridge slipcase. 

Older Cambridge editions come in a simple box, but somewhere along the line -- I'm guessing during the 1980s or 90s -- the two-part slipcase was introduced. The tan interior slip held the Bible, then fitted into the slightly wider exterior slip, which was printed with a spired university scene. The attraction wasn't the Brideshead-style nostalgia the image evoked. It was the practical nature of the slipcase itself. As the photo illustrates, a softcover Bible enclosed in its slipcase can stand upright on a shelf like any other book. That, my friends, is a real plus.

Nowadays Cambridge Bibles (like all the rest) are either in the box or out. If they're in, they might be better protected, but you can't actually see them. With the slipcased editions, you can pluck them right off the shelf for use, then tuck them right back. Some editions, such as the red NIV pictured at the top of the stack, only came with an outer slipcase, which worked just as well.

Of course, just because your Bible didn't come with a slipcase doesn't mean you can't have one. If you're handy, here's a tutorial on how to make your own:

Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em?

There are few people more despised and reviled in today's culture than the Cigarette Smoker. To the moralist, he is (to paraphrase King James -- the monarch, not the translation) loathsome to the eye and hateful to the nose, belching the smoke of the bottomless pit. To the health-conscious, he poisons both himself and those around him before becoming a burden to the state. 

And yet, if you love your Bible, you owe him a debt of gratitude. 

Above: C. S. Lewis, doing his bit for the cause.

Strange as it sounds, in one of the great ironies of modern times, there are just two segments of society that rely on the ready availablilty of super-thin paper: Bible readers and cigarette smokers. And guess which ones are in the majority? Apparently those of us who purchase Bibles really need the cigarette smokers to stick around. As Cambridge's Bob Groser shared with me last month, if it weren't for the demand for cigarette paper, there's a good chance the mills producing Bible paper would go out of business. At the very least, costs would go up substantially. 

"But," I objected, "the paper's not the same, is it?" He answered with an equivocal shrug, as if to say it is, more or less. 

I can imagine this odd fact inspiring a variety of reactions. Zealous anti-smokers will no doubt worry that their Bibles are tainted by the association, and perhaps will be more welcoming of the advent of e-Bibles as a result. A few contrarians might pick up a pack of Marlboros and emulate the example of C. S. Lewis in support of ecclesiastical publishing. For the rest of us, I suppose it's just a reminder of what an interesting and unexpected world we happen to live in. 

Waiting for Translation Revisions

Q. Do you know when/if R.L. Allan will offer its ESV Reader's Edition in the updated ESV 2011 text? 

Off the top of my head, I'm afraid not. Questions like this are best directed to the good folks at R. L. Allan themselves. My guess, based on past translation revisions, is that it will take some time to trickle down. In the case of the Reader's Edition, which is not based on a current Crossway/Collins text block, that may take longer. 

The question you have to ask yourself is how important having the updated text is. The last time the ESV was updated, I recall getting questions about whether it would be better to wait before buying an ESV. After all, a quality Bible is a lifetime investment. You don't want to lock yourself into version 1.0 when there's a version 1.1 on the verge of being released. (This is the logic that has led me to hold onto my iPhone 3GS instead of upgrading to the iPhone 4 when I qualified to do so.)

In hindsight, the changes to the ESV weren't significant enough to make the wait worthwhile. And even if they had been, imagine holding out for the last revision before making that lifetime commitment, then getting the word that version 1.2 was coming down the pipeline. And suppose there's going to be a 2013 revision, too? 

Obviously, you've got to decide for yourself whether the extent of the revision is sufficient to justify a new purchase. For what it's worth, it would take a major revision of English prose style (moving away from the RSVs more awkward locutions) before I could see myself "needing" to switch. 

Why eBibles Are (Finally) A Good Thing

Several people have asked why I'm not excited about the new "personal size" ESV Study Bible, which offers most of the content of its 6 x 9" (more or less) big brother but in a smaller 5 x 8" (give or take) format. The thing is, I think it's a great idea, and I really am pleased to see Crossway expanding the line this way. But for me, it's the solution to a problem I don't have, thanks to Olive Tree.

I've had an iPhone since they first came out, and despite some initial skepticism I now have an iPad, too. Both of them have Olive Tree's ESV Study Bible app loaded, which means I carry the ESV SB with me pretty much everywhere, but only have to think about it when I actually need it. 

Above: Warp factor ten nerdiness.
A photo of my iPad ESV SB taken with my iPhone,
with my own reflection staring back at me.
It's all good until the power goes out.

If you've followed my writing at all, you know I'm not one of those philistines who's greeting the advent of e-books with delight: "Awesome! Now we can burn all the printed books!" I have my doubts about the whole thing, and suspect we're going to be losing more in abandoning the printed book than we did it ditching the compact disc. Still, even I can't deny the impact technology is making on the way we experience the text.

Above: When my anxiety about the non-physical future gets too intense,
I just flip over my iPad for a soothing reminder.

Of course, Bible software is nothing new. It's just that, until recently, going all-virtual with the Bible required a nerdy impracticality bordering on lunacy. Back in the 90s, there were guys rocking self-annotated Bibles on their awesome home PCs, laughing at those of us still backward enough to be toting paper copies. But the rest of us knew the joke was on them. Now, not so much.

Technology has tamed all the notes and references that overwhelmed the printed page. You can toggle that stuff off and on like so many projector overlays (well, sort of). And while you might expect a lover of leather, glue, thread, paper, and ink to deplore the fact, I think it's probably good news for printed Bibles. Why? Because it takes the pressure off.

You don't really need to squeeze every little thing into a printed Bible anymore. Sure, they're still trying, but as time goes on that's going to seem increasingly pointless ... kind of like the physical edition of the NET Bible if, like me, you only use it for the notes. Most of us will be using simple, text-only printed Bibles (if we use any printed Bibles at all) and whipping out the iDevice when we need to drill down into the helps. It'll save room on the page, save weight, and improve human relations with calf- and goatskin donors (the things the non-Bibliophiles just call "animals"). 

The point is, the rise of convenient eBibles creates an opportunity for publishers to start exploring streamlined, reader-focused formats. The next generation of "helps" will start off as digital tools, offering features a printed page can't hope to replicate. So why bother trying? There's one thing the printed page can still do better, one place where digital ink's got nothing on real ink. A clean, transparent reading experience is all we'll really need from our Bibles a few years from now. So why not start making them today?

 

 

Streamliners and Complicators

My friend Jeff Baldwin, one of the co-founders of Worldview Academy, divides the world up into two kinds of people: streamliners and complicators. As the labels suggest, streamliners are always simplifying, always pushing toward greater efficiency, while complicators go through life making everything harder on themselves and everyone around them. Talk to Jeff long enough and you begin to realize there is only one true streamliner in the world -- himself -- and the rest of us, in different ways, are complicators! Still, when it comes to Bible design, I think he has a point.

As a design project, the Bible is nothing if not complicated. There's a huge volume of text to contend with, and it comes in a variety of genres, each calling for sensitive treatment. Binding all sixty-six books under a single cover is itself the chief complication. If you give each word enough room on the page, and each line an appropriate length, and if you allow each page an elegant proportion, and print the result on paper sufficiently opaque for comfortable reading, what you end up with is a massive tome. To get around this, you must either split it up into volumes or compromise somewhere else: thinner paper, tiny print, double columns, cramped lines. 

Above: Thompson Chain Reference layout.
Great for study? People swear by them.
A little complicated? You bet.

Now suppose you layer in another series of complications. Divide the text into chapters and verses, adding footnotes and headings where appropriate. Devote a column of space to cross-references. Break up long words into accented syllables for easier pronunciation. Extend margins for note-taking. Add charts and diagrams. Set off selected texts in a different color. The possibilities are endless, and there's a case to be made for each one. No matter how significant the alteration, no matter how infinitesimal the gain, I'm betting there will always be someone who's a fan of the change and insists on having it. 

And that's how you get to where we are today. The Bible has begun to look like a very expensive Swiss watch with displays for day and date, moon phases, power reserves, and Greenwich Mean Time -- very desirable complications, to an enthusiast -- but not so helpful (maybe even a bit of a hindrance) to someone who's just trying to figure out what time it is. 

Above: "Sorry I'm late, I was checking my watch."

That's why I think the most important trend in Bible design right now is the desire to streamline. Instead of offering more and more apparatus, the streamlining impulse wants to strip as much away as possible, to roll back the wave of enhancements until we're left, more or less, with the text. Instead of offering a Bible that's kind of helpful for a lot of tasks (devotional, personal study, scholarship, teaching, etc.), the goal is to optimize the layout for one task: reading. 

This is not such a hard thing to achieve. It takes real talent to design a complicated Bible in such a way that its complications don't overwhelm the text. All it takes to come up with a streamlined Bible is an elegantly proportioned single-column grid, an appropriate page size, a classic typeface, and a basic understanding of how prose and poetry are best laid out. When in doubt, refer to just about any Peguin paperback of the mid-twentieth century.

Above: Forget about mid-century, here's a recent Penguin paperback.
This is a man after my own heart. Follow the link for a great project idea. 

I've been writing about this for a number of years, and over time I've reviewed several editions that at least aspire to this kind of simplicity. For the most part, though, today's default editions represent a compromise between the extremes. They aren't nearly as complicated-looking as some nineteenth century examples, back when the old verse-per-line, self-pronouncing mania reigned supreme, but they've retained "sensible" complications: double columns to balance the tiny print, chapter and verse notations (now embedded in paragraphed text), sometimes book introductions.

This represents a lot of progress in comparison with the past. When I'm reading such an edition (like the Cambridge Pitt Minion, for example), I don't boil with rage or find myself baffled or blinded by the complicated design choices.

Still, I long for the day when every translation can boast at least one streamlined, reader-friendly format executed in a quality way. For me that means a single column, paragraphed text with a minimum of intrusions (discrete chapter and verse notations, no additional references), elegant proportions, good paper -- basically a nice, thick, hand-filling volume not too different in appearance than any other book I'd typically spend a long time reading. 

The Case Against Verse-By-Verse

Back in the day, if you'd been writing, say, the book of Hebrews, and you came to a particular point in the argument where an Old Testament quotation would really do the trick, the result would have looked something like this:

So also Christ did not exalt himself to be made a high priest, but was appointed by him who said to him, "You are my Son, today I have begotten you"; as he says also in another place, "You are a priest forever, after the order of Melchizedek."

Try that now and you'll get into trouble. While teaching a few years back, I went through a phase where I self-consciously cited Scripture the way Scripture cites itself. The result? People would come up afterward and says things like, "That was really good, but I would have appreciated more Scripture." But I used lots of it, I'd protest, pointing out the many instances. "Well ... you should cite your references, then."

What they wanted was something like this:

So also Christ did not exalt himself to be made a high priest, but was appointed by him who said to him in Psalm 2:7, "You are my Son, today I have begotten you"; as he says also in another place, namely Psalm 110:4, "You are a priest forever, after the order of Melchizedek."

It's absurd, of course, to dock the author of Hebrews for not having given the proper "address" for his quotations, since versification didn't come along until the sixteenth century. Now that it's here, though, most of us think we can't do without it. After all, without verse numbers, how are we supposed to look stuff up?

THE GRINCH WHO STOLE VERSES
Don't worry. I'm not going to try and take your verse numbers away. I think versification, unlike the nineteenth century innovation called red letters, actually serves a worthwhile purpose. But something detrimental came along with it, namely the verse-per-line or verse-by-verse format. This is the format familiar from old school King James text settings, where every verse starts on a fresh line, no matter where the sentences or paragraphs happen to break.

In a taste of things to come, here's a photo of Hendrickson's facsimile edition of Tyndale's 1526 New Testament, printed in cooperation with the British Library. Notice anything interesting?

 

This is the "first English Bible translated from the original languages," and yes, it's a single column, paragraphed edition. No verse numbers, because Stephanus hadn't gotten around to that yet. One step forward, two steps back, as they say. We got verse numbers, which in my opinion is a good thing, but we lost paragraphs, which is tragic.