Bible Design and Binding

DIY Conversion: Chopping the Margins Off an ESV Journaling Bible

Here's a follow-up to yesterday's post about the ESV Single Column Journaling Bible. 

I love everything about the Single Column Journaling Bible. Well, almost everything. After months with the SCJB, I’ve found one feature that doesn’t really fit into my pattern of use: the lined margins for note-taking. While this Bible has become one of my standards, in the whole time I’ve had it, I have never written in the margins. There was a time when I would have made heavy use of those margins, but now I’m more likely to write notes down separately. 
    Even so, I wouldn’t have started daydreaming about chopping those margins off if it wasn’t for how perfect the SCJB seems in every other respect. The thickness of the book, the way it opens flat, the nice dark print on the lovely cream paper. It would be so right, I kept thinking, if only the margins weren’t there. 
    Viewed from the front, the Single Column Journaling Bible, thanks to those margins, is a bit squarish. Opened flat on my desk or on the podium as I teach, the book appears almost twice as large as it needs to be. All that empty space … what would happen if I just snipped it off? 
    In my attic workshop, I have a heavy-duty guillotine paper cutter. The Single Column Journaling Bible is about as thick as a book can be and still fit under the blade. The thing that kept me from making the cuts was that, in addition to losing the margins, I would lose the running headers and the page numbers, not to mention some of the back matter, which is formatted to fill the whole page. With the hardcovers, I would also lose the elastic strap that holds the cover closed, and the covers themselves would look raggedy once I’d sliced them. 
    I solved the first problem by leaving enough of the margin behind that I could still make out a few letters of the header. I wouldn’t be able to retain the page numbers, and the resulting chopped edition would not help me win any speed-draw competitions … but to my mind, that’s a good thing. The older I get, the more I turn against chapter and verse in favor of sentence and paragraph. 
    The second problem, the ragged cover, I solved by chopping the natural leather edition. Using a rotary cutter, I could make a clean edge and then round the corners. The paper lining runs right to the edge of the leather now, which doesn’t look quite right, but otherwise it’s a convincing result. As an aside, because the natural leather doesn't have any kind of protective finish, the surface is particularly susceptible to spotting. If you like things to look new throughout their lifespan, this cover won't rock your world. But if you're one of those people always hunting for the fast-track to patina, here it is.
    The conversion took less than ten minutes, and most of that time was spent gathering the courage to cut. I took the pages down in stages -- you can always cut more, but you can’t uncut once you’ve gone too far. In the end, I stopped cutting once the margin looked right proportionally. This left more residual lines at the edge than I wanted, while making for a more aesthetically pleasing result overall. When you look at the photos, imagine what this would look like if Crossway created a setting with the headers and page numbers in line with the text and no margin. I think people would love that edition.
    Post-chop, my SCJB retains all the features I appreciate about this Bible. It’s fluid, it opens flat, it has a great readable layout. Although I performed the conversion as an experiment, not planning to use the Bible afterward, I’ve found myself carrying and enjoying it. Perhaps it is a testament to the SCJB’s qualities that even with the funky edges, I still prefer it to so many other options. 
    And I definitely don’t worry about “damaging” it!

Postscript
Ironically enough, not long after I executed this DIY conversion, I decided to transfer my notes and outlines for sermons and lectures I'll be teaching this summer my red Single Column Journaling Bible, using Metaphis color-coded tabs to coordinate the passages -- i.e., all the references for one sermon are marked with white tabs, the references for another in orange, and so on, making them easier to distinguish from one another. The relevant notes on the passage are copied into the margin (in pencil). So I found a use for the Journaling Bible's margins after all.

 

What I Like

Just about everything. 

What I Don’t Like

The fact that you can’t buy this margin-free edition from Crossway. (But the forthcoming Single Column Heritage Bible looks like it will fit the bill nicely!)

The Photos: 

 

Below, I snapped a couple of comparison shots between the DIY Journaling Bible and the lambskin-bound ESV Personal Size Reference:

The Swiss Army's Solution to Tiny Type

"My poor eyes can't take the strain!" This lament reaches my inbox every couple of days, aimed at the increasing difficulty aging readers experience with the tiny print inside their Bibles. In a context where 12 pt. type is considered large print, this is not surprising. Sadly, there isn't a miraculous ultra-thin, super-large-print compact Bible on the market that nobody's told you about. 

Victorinox, however, the makers of the iconic Swiss Army Knife, have a solution:

If you are straining your eyes to figure out what's in the picture above, it's a magnifying glass. This model knife is called an Explorer Plus. (The Plus means there's an extra screwdriver, a pin, and a ballpoint concealed within the handle.) I'm not sure which styles of SAK come with the magnifying glass, but if you struggle with the small print, you might consider finding out. 

I'm serious.

Antiquarians and consulting detectives throughout the ages have availed themselves of a magnifying glass in order to read fine print (and discover clues). The principal is similar to that employed by the cheap "reading glasses" they sell at the drug store: a little lens magnifies the size of what you're looking at, making it easier to see. The problem with the glasses is they slip to the tip of your nose and make people think you're a judgmental librarian type. With the Swiss Army Knife, they assume you were going for the scissors and pulled the wrong lever. 

I wouldn't exactly call the level of magnifcation provided by the SAK "robust." Laying on the page, it just about doubles the size of what's beneath, which is not too shabby. Examining the photo below, you'll notice that the word "hear" in the magnifier is a lot easier to read than the word "hide" in the next verse. Wave one of these in front of the R. L. Allan Compact Text ESV and that 6.5 pt. type expands to, like, 11. If you hold it back a bit, you're in large print territory.

Whenever the Levenger catalog arrives in my mailbox, I always flip through to make sure the Franklin Library Stand Desk is still there. One day, I hope to have one of these -- or a vintage equivalent -- in my office, with a nice big lectern Bible on top:

See the little globe poking up above the book? That's a magnifier. It comes with the desk, which is a thoughtful touch. Here's another image, illustrating the domed magnifier a little better:

The idea is that, as you're reading, you place the dome on top of the page and it makes the words freakishly large. If you carried one of these things in the wild, you'd be mistaken for a fortune teller -- not to mention the risk of starting unintentional fires. But in the comfort and privacy of your reading abode, using such an aid is perfectly acceptable.

For reading out and about, I recommend the Swiss Army Knife. 

Breaking In the Pitt Minion

As I mentioned earlier in the week, my brown goatskin Pitt Minion has served as a mainstay during the past four years. If you had told me in 2008 that this would happen, I would not have believed it. Frankly, I hated the thing at first. Hate is a strong word, but you have to understand, I had such high hopes for the brown Pitt Minion. I'm not a black Bible kind of guy, nor am I a stiff cover kind of guy. So I needed the Pitt Minion to be non-black (check) and soft (uncheck). 

While the cover wasn't as stiff as some late nineties calfskin I could mention -- so stiff you could put an edge on it and slice fingers -- the Pitt Minion wasn't soft. It could stand all by itself, which is a great thing if you're a toddler learning to walk. Not so much if you're a high-end Bible.

"Don't think I'm going to treat you special," I told the Pitt Minion. "'Cause you're not special. You're stiff." True to my word, I twisted the cover, bent it, curled it, rolled it up like a newspaper -- and I did all this with white-knuckled intensity becasue I didn't care what happened. If I ripped the cover off, if I tore the binding, none of it mattered. 

A great man once said -- was it Bono? -- that karma is getting what you deserve and grace is not getting what you deserve. In the case of the Pitt Minion, I received grace. All this abuse didn't destroy the little Bible. It made the Pitt Minion better. I can't exactly recommend the procedure ... but it worked. 

If I had to describe my Pitt Minion's cover today, I'd called it "rubbed." It looks well-handled, because that's exactly what it is. All that twisting -- along with more conventional use -- has resulted in the cover wrapping around the edges somewhat. There's a little pinch at the spine. Near the headband and along the top edge, there are some pale nicks in the leather.  

No, the cover didn't turn limp. It still possesses enough of its original rigidity to support the text block in my hand. But I've found I quite like that. Part of the break-in process involved softening the cover. To be more precise, I was bending and stressing the board underneath. Part of the process was also, in some esoteric sense, making this edition my own. 

There's a tendency for those of us who appreciate well-made Bibles to consider them as objects to collect and admire rather than use. All bibliophiles are prone to this. Michael Russem writes about the phenomenon in the Fall 2007 issue of The Bonefolder in a piece called "The Failure of Fine Printing." See if this rings a bell:

Because we are so accustomed to mass market productions, the physical elements and processes traditionally chosen for fine press books -- handmade paper, letterpress, and hand bindings -- are foreign to the average reader and thus call too much attention to themselves, over stimulating the senses and spirit. It is impossible to handle them without relishing in the deliciousness of the materials -- though all the while feeling panic over the possibility of damaging these precious items. It is difficult to imagine curling up in bed with a full leather or a delicate paper binding as one would do so readily with a paperback. Because the editions are so luxurious and often unwieldy, it is impractical and terrifying to read these book. People are often afraid to even touch them.

The end result, with apologies to Augustine, is that we take, but we do not read. Ironically, in pampering "fine" books this way, we are giving in to the assumptions that drive mass market consumerism. Equating quality with luxury, perpetuating the idea that some things are too well made to actually use, is what keeps the abismal standards prevalent in the industry alive. And Russem is talking about true fine press books. By his standards, the high-end Bibles we cherish are mass produced. 

Above: Note the light dots near the head and where the top layer has flecked away.

When I stopped caring about preserving the Pitt Minion, when I stopped caring even what happened to it, I discovered this little Bible really was made to be used. It hasn't fallen apart. There aren't any missing pages. The ribbon hasn't even frayed significantly. The abuse hasn't ruined this Bible's looks. In fact, to me, it looks much finer than your shiny new ones in their glossy protective boxes. 

All it took was a little of this (see above). "I will break you," I said. And the Pitt Minion, channeling Paul Atreides, replied: "I will bend like a reed in the wind." 

Semi-Yapp

The best explanation I've read of the terms yapp and semi-yapp comes from R. L. Allan's Nicholas Gray, which you can read here: "Meaning of Yapp." Long story short, think of yapp as the edge of the cover. A semi-yapp cover will wrap around the page edges, while a full-yapp cover wraps even farther, to the point of touching or thereabout. Imagine an old-style zippered Bible minus the actual zip. Or better yet, just look at this picture:

Above: The R. L. Allan Compact Text Edition of the ESV, with semi-yapp edge.

There are two factors at work here: the extension of the cover, and the curve. A full- or semi-yapp cover is not simply one that extends out past the edge of the paper. It also curves around, as if to cup the book block in its leather embrace. The Bible in the photos, an R. L. Allan ESV Compact Text Edition, gets things just right. When executed well, a semi-yapp edge adds some Old World elegance to a Bible. 

When you compare the Bible to the hardback journal underneath, you can see how a semi-yapp cover delivers practical benefits. Not only does it feel nice in the hand, but it also offers protection to the gilded page edges. On a small Bible like this, I find it particuarlly attractive ... but in all honestly, I like semi-yapp in any size cover.

The downside? Some people find that the extra leather around the edge of the cover gets in the way when flipping pages. I haven't had much trouble in that regard -- but I don't often rush from text to text (on principle, not just because I'm slow). Your mileage may vary, so be advised.

Poetry in Single Column Settings

One of the advantages modern Bibles possess over their older counterparts is paragraphed text. When you don't present the entire Bible in verse form, the passages that really are verse are easier to distinguish. But this is a double-edged sword. Paragraphed texts in two-column settings don't have an awful lot of room for a line of verse to fit. As a result, sections of poetry can be badly cut up. 

Case in point: A Bible Design Blog reader e-mailed me recently wondering if there was a formatting error in his R. L. Allan Reader's Edition ESV. As he scanned through Isaiah 66, he found a strange line break in the middle of verse 2. The word "be" is all alone on the line, with the finishing "declares the Lord" on the line below, spaced way over. Like so:

Consulting the Classic Reference setting in his Allan's ESV1, he found exactly the same thing. If it was an error, it had been repeated over time without being caught. And after all, it looks like an error, doesn't it? You can imagine the typesetter accidentially hitting the return button and not catching the mistake.

It's not a mistake, of course. This is intentional. The translators, in versifying the text, wanted to set the dialogue tag apart from what was being said. The easiest way to explain this is with a picture:

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: