The Pleasure of Random Knowledge Derived from Unlikely Sources

At an antiques show years ago, I signed up for the mailing list of a rare book dealer named Phillip J. Pirages. I've never bought or even owned anything that deserves to be called a "rare book," but to this day I receive the thick, handsome Pirages catalog every few months, and I always set aside an hour or so to peruse it. Not that I plan on buying any rare books; that's the kind of thing I will buy only if by some bizarre twist of fate I someday find myself with so much money that I don't know what to do with it. But the catalog is a fascinating compendium of cultural information that I would surely never encounter anywhere else.

As you may have guessed by now, a few examples from the latest edition will follow.

My favorite section of the catalog is the last one: "Books Printed from 1800 to the Present." The very first item in this section is something titled Memoir on Acupuncturation, Embracing a Series of Cases, Drawn Up Under the Inspection of M. Julius Cloquet. The amazing date of publication is 1825. Turns out, according to the descriptive notes prepared by the Pirages staff, that acupuncture was known in Europe as far back as the seventeenth century; Dr. Cloquet was a French expert in the practice. I always believed acupuncture first made it out of China around 1968--a fine example of the common fallacy of assuming that something originated around the time I first became aware of it. (If you're interested, Pirages is pricing the Memoir on Acupuncturation at $1,900.)

Ever heard of fore-edge painting? Apparently popular in the nineteenth century, this was the custom of painting an image, usually a landscape, on the slightly fanned front edges of book pages. The catalog lists half a dozen books under the heading "Fore-Edge Painting" rather than by topic or author, which I guess means that such books are purchased mainly by collectors who value the paintings, not the books themselves.

Oddly enough, the paintings don't necessarily have anything to do with the contents of the books. For example, an 1811 edition of The Vision of Don Roderick, and Other Poems by Sir Walter Scott is adorned with what's described in the catalog (all in capital letters) as "A FINE AND UNUSUAL FORE-EDGE PAINTING OF AN INDUSTRIAL CITY." The book listing bears a headline that makes a pretty weak sales pitch; it reads, "Depressing Painting of a Gritty Industrial City." (If you're a collector who specializes in depressing paintings, the book is available for $1,800.)

Here's one more curiosity--a first edition of The Deseret Second Book, a theology primer notable for being one of only three books ever published in the Deseret alphabet, a set of "vaguely Cyrillic and semiphonetic characters" invented by the Mormons of Utah in an effort to keep their religious teachings secret from outsiders. According to the scholars at Pirages (an impressively learned bunch, you must agree), "the new system did not catch on and was discontinued after Brigham Young's death in 1877."

As with every book in the catalog, the condition of The Deseret Second Book is described in meticulous detail: "Back cover just a little soiled, very faint dampstain at tip of upper corner of text, but A FINE, BRIGHT COPY, ESPECIALLY FRESH INTERNALLY." (Nice word there, "dampstain," a coinage worthy of Gerard Manley Hopkins.) Sounds like a bargain at $375--and a great opportunity to brush up on your rusty knowledge of the Deseret alphabet.

I wonder how much longer I can manage to stay on the Pirages mailing list without buying anything? If someone from their staff happens to read this post, will they cross me off the list or award me a lifetime subscription? The latter, I hope.