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It’s hard to believe that less than a year has passed since Conversation Tree Press shipped its first edition, Peter Pan, to collectors, such has been the relentless pace with which new editions are announced and released. The latest offering to reach readers’ hands is Robert Louis Stevenson‘s inimitable adventure classic, Treasure Island. It was issued by the press in a limitation of 356, consisting of 110 unnumbered standard copies, 210 hand-numbered deluxe copies, 26 lettered copies, and 10 copies in unbound sheets (using sheets from the deluxe state). It is a little uncommon to see an edition where the more costly deluxe state so significantly outnumbers the standard. On this occasion the reason is that the book was first offered through a Kickstarter campaign, with the eventual limitation set according to the backers of each state. The market hath spoken!

On a personal note, this book is a real childhood favourite of mine and I have previously reviewed the delightful 2014 Folio Society edition. That book was a gift from someone dear and so I resisted the (strong) temptation to order the Conversation Tree Press edition before it went out of print, even though I knew it would probably amount to the best fine press treatment of the work yet produced. Fortunately, I have been able to borrow copies of the three main states to share with the followers of this blog and the associated YouTube channel.

For those who never read Stevenson’s adventure masterpiece, let me briefly offer a few comments. First, if you think of any pirate-related motif it will probably be found here: buried treasure, “x” marks the spot, wooden legs and talking parrots. Treasure Island has them all. Indeed many popular tropes have their origins in Stevenson’s imagination, Second, the book is a masterclass—I say again, an absolute masterclass—in how to construct a thrilling and unrelenting adventure yarn. When you get to the end of the Conversation Tree edition’s 186 pages, you will wonder whether there is a black hole somewhere in the book, so adept was Stevenson at economically filling his work with intrigue and excitement. Third, except for a couple of rare vernacular passages, it is eminently readable and, though a children’s book, not at all childish. If you have a taste for adventure on the high seas then you will like it in high likelihood.

I begin with something that all states of the edition share in common: their printed contents. The printing was handled by Nomad Letterpress and was achieved by letterpress from digitally-produced plates. The printing is crisp and clean as we have come to expect of Nomad’s work, with a kiss rather than a bite. The trim size is an impressive 240mm × 340mm (9½″× 13½″), so these are folio-sized volumes. I enjoy this impressively large format for reading, but you’ll probably want to rest the book in your lap rather than trying to hold it.

The text is set across two columns in Bembo Book, a digital version of the classic 20th century Bembo face. Display elements are typeset in Goudy Text, a suitably piratical blackletter face. Everything is printed in black except the title, which is blue. Each of the book’s parts opens with a hand-drawn initial.

The two column layout can be divisive, but helps keep lines to a manageable length. The alternatives would have been to either sacrifice the impressively large format, or to print in a much larger fount and thereby increase page count (and hence weight and cost). I think it’s a fair trade-off. There are a couple of departures from this template. The spread from pp36–37 is rotated 90 degrees and printed in three columns to accommodate a couple of panoramic illustrations. Quotes from notes and letters are printed in a single column and italic.

The edition includes a generous 52 original illustrations by Marc Castelli. Like the text, these were all printed letterpress, and vary from modestly-sized vignettes incorporated into the text to full-page images. This includes a full-page frontispiece and full-page part titles. The illustrations are line drawings with heavy use of hatching for shading, meaning they effectively capture the atmosphere of scenes ranging from conspiratorial night time meetings to sun-drenched desert island confrontations. I appreciated the inclusion of both character portraits and narrative illustration, and the profusion of drawings makes the book visually engaging. There is also a redrawn version of Stevenson’s map. The original is such an iconic part of the book, but the new replacement is more in keeping with the rest of this edition’s design. In Castelli’s map, the entire island appears to be labelled “Skeleton Island”, which I think is supposed to be the name of the small islet off the south coast.

Lastly, Castelli provided one page of “Thoughts on Illustrating Treasure Island”, printed after the main text.

Also accompanying the main text is an introduction by scholar Caroline A. Howitt and three essays by Stevenson.

Now to discuss the specific physical attributes of the standard state. It arrives in a slipcase covered in a beige Italian linen cloth. It feels solidly made and is lined with a brown suede-like material for an extra touch of luxury. The volume inside is quarter bound in that same cloth over paper covered boards. I have previously reviewed three Conversation Tree editions, each of which has stunned me with a beautiful paper binding (on the standard Peter Pan, the deluxe Faun and the standard Flowers for Algernon). Treasure Island continues the unbroken record of success in this regard. The paper is printed with a brown and gold swirly motif that evokes the ocean while catching the light in a quite spectacular fashion. It sits very handsomely alongside the beige book cloth.

The spine is blocked in gilt, there are blue endbands, a ribbon marker in a striking yellow is included, and all edges of the text block are trimmed. Inside, we find plain brown endpapers and 120gsm Swedish Munken Cream paper. This is a modern, smooth surface with good opacity. I consider the 120gsm weight a good fit for a book of this weight.

The standard state is unnumbered, but signed by the illustrator to the colophon. The list price of the standard state was US$345.

Stepping up to the deluxe state, the slipcase is now covered in a two-tone brown linen cloth that catches the light in interesting ways. There is a small circular cut-out on the front revealing a plain black leather disc beneath. Like the standard slipcase, it is robust and had a suede-like lining. One wonders, though, whether the suedel is there to protect the book from the slipcase or the slipcase from the book. Indeed, we remove the book to be confronted with a solid volume whose sides are crafted from centimetre-thick oak boards. These have been given an antique finish and abused a bit to give the impression of a well-worn treasure chest. The edges of the board have been bevelled to increase handling comfort, but this too has been done in a thematically-appropriate homespun fashion. We also now see that the black leather disc visible through the slipcase’s cut-out is an inset representation of the “black spot”, an important Treasure Island McGuffin.

The binding has a quarter leather back with six raised bands and gilt blocking to the spine. The end bands and ribbon marker are now red. Externally, the deluxe state is a spectacular display piece with a real physical presence. It’s something I almost never do, but I would absolutely put the slipcase aside to put this oaken tome out on show, certain that it would start some interesting conversations. The trade-off is that almost an inch of oak panel adds significantly to the book’s weight. Laptop reading still works if you sit upright, but this is a book that is perhaps best enjoyed on tabletop or similar support. Unlike the standard state, the deluxe was bound by Ludlow Bookbinders. Ludlow do excellent work and this is no exception, but let me say that I also have no objections whatsoever to the quality of binding of the standard state.

Opening the front board, I feel the weight of the wood and like to imagine that I am Jim Hawkins opening Billy Bones’ sea chest for the first time. Appropriately, we are greeted with sparking gold in the form of end papers printed to the same nice design used on the boards of the standard state. It’s great that owners of the deluxe don’t miss out on that nice paper. The other change is that the printing is now on 135gsm Naturalis paper. It is noticeably smoother than the already quite smooth stock used in the standards. I regard this as a ‘sidegrade’: neither one state’s paper was obviously nicer to handle than the other. I think a coarser, less refined paper would have been a great fit for this edition, but I expect the smoother stocks made life a bit easier when letterpress printing the relatively fine details of the pen and ink drawings.

Deluxe copies are numbered and signed by the illustrator. The list price of the deluxe state was US$795.

The lettered state arrives with a a bang! At least that’s the sound a ~10kg oaken “sea chest” makes when lowered onto a table top. The said sea chest is provided in lieu of a slipcase or solander box for this state. It measures approximately 440mm × 330m × 120mm (17½″× 13″× 4½″) and is designed to lie flat on an open surface rather than fit onto a bookcase. The material is solid oak, with the exception of the base, which is finished in oak veneer. The wood is finished in an antique stain and bears a black letter “B” on its lid—short for Billy Bones, whose own sea chest plays an important role in the book’s opening act. There are chunky brass handles to each side, again with an antique finished, and concealed hinges. As you might infer from the weight of the thing, this box feels like solid piece of furniture and is certainly not some flimsy gimmick. You’ll need a dedicated space for it, but it would make a striking centrepiece sitting atop a low bookcase or display table. The inside of the chest has a fitted insert lined with a brown suede-like material to comfortably accommodate the book. There’s also a suede-lined panel on the lid so that the book does not come into contact with the wooden box at all. A brown ribbon pull is provided to help lift the volume out of the box.

That brings us to the book. I consider it a real triumph. It is bound (again by Ludlow) in full leather with a navy blue base over which is onlaid in blue and white the topographical outline of the eponymous island. Further contour lines are embossed into the leather and the whole design wraps around onto the rear board. The covers are otherwise unadorned, with no titling blocked on the spine. The top edge is gilded and there are blue hand-sewn end bands. We also get a glimpse of a blue ribbon marker. One thing that strikes me about this lettered copy is that it feels subjectively “well-balanced”. By that, I mean that the book’s size, weight, and the substance of the leather binding feel to be in quite perfect harmony with one another.

The endpapers of this state were hand-marbled by Freya Scott, whose work we previously encountered on the CTP lettered edition of Peter Pan. The example used here is quite attractive, which is little surprise given the press’ previous record of finding and using exceptionally nice papers.

Consistent with Conversation Tree’s usual practice, the substantive contents are identical across states. But the lettered state has its own paper upgrade to 170gsm Liber Charta paper. That paper was used in the deluxe state of Faun as well as the Incline Press’ Punch & Judy. It is billed as a spiritual successor to the sadly defunct Zerkall paper that was previously so ubiquitous in the private press world. Like the paper in the other two states, its a relatively smooth refined surface, but has taken the printing well. The colophon is hand numbered and signed by the illustrator, binder and printers.

The lettered state also includes two letterpress-printed broadsides of approximately A4 size with four deckled edges. They are printed on a heavy rag paper that feels sublime. Each features a piece of Castelli’s artwork (his map and a drawing of the Hispaniola), with one also featuring a quote from the novel.

The list price for the lettered state was US$2,995.

The Conversation Tree Treasure Island has all the makings of a definitive edition of this much loved work. I don’t believe any other fine press has provided a similar treatment. Each of the three copies I saw has its advantages and it is great to see the press continuing to ensure that buyers of every state feel like they are getting value for money.

The standard state would be my pick for a luxurious reading copy. It is lighter and easier to handle than the others. I find the binding, while more conventional, really quite tasteful. And I have a very slight preference for the standard edition’s paper and yellow ribbon marker over those of the deluxe, although these are likely to be matters of personal taste.

The deluxe state would be great for those who, like me, have a lifelong affection for Stevenson’s work and want a great collector’s piece. The design has a wonderful thematic connection to the work and is sure to beguile any book lover who crosses your threshold. It would be a great display piece but would also fit handsomely onto a bookcase with its classically elegant spine layout. And, of course, it is still perfectly readable if you can cope with the extra weight.

If setting the deluxe up as a display piece is an attractive option, doing so is almost mandatory for the lettered state. Where else will you put the sea chest, if not out on display? But the chest has a real physical presence, and the book itself is beautifully and strikingly crafted. The world is full of people who grew up with Treasure Island and, short of a Stevenson first edition, I believe this lettered state is the ultimate collector’s showpiece and will remain so for the foreseeable future.

All three states are beautifully produced and I can’t imagine anyone being dissatisfied with any of them. ■

At the time of writing, the bound states of Treasure Island are out of print with only a few copies in unbound sheets still available. They an be purchased directly from the Conversation Tree Press shop.

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C. H. St John Hornby’s Ashendene Press ceased printing shortly after the outbreak of the First World War in 1914, resuming six years later. The last book to be printed before this hiatus was a volume of poems written in 1913 by the Poet Laureate, Robert Bridges. Bridges had previously had his work published by the Daniel Press in Oxford, but on this occasion he persuaded Hornby to print eleven new poems for his private distribution.

A total of eighty five paper copies and six copies on vellum were produced, with fifty going to the author and the remainder being retained by the press. None of the copies were for sale. Fast-forward to the 21st century and WorldCat identifies copies in 46 libraries. Since some institutions have multiple copies (Oxford alone has four), there seem to be fewer than 40 copies in private hands. Though not the scarcest Ashendene edition, that makes this book uncommon.

It was quite common for private press books of the period to be given a simple and temporary binding. The intention was that this austere binding would be quickly replaced by a more permanent one of the reader’s choosing. Often, as here, that original binding, now to be considered a blessing, survives. But there’s no getting away from the fact that the humble holland spine over plan blue paper boards is far from high-end. The only embellishment is the simple printing of the title on the front board in black ink.

The book has 20 pages plus six blanks. The text block is of Batchelor’s handmade paper, a perennial favourite of the early British private presses. By modern standards, this is a coarse and unrefined paper. But this gives it a tactile and antique quality that always makes a pleasant change from the smooth and refined papers commonly encountered in many fine press books of today. There’s a deckled bottom and fore edge.

The setting of the title from the front board is repeated as the only text on an austere title page. This is a good time to mention that the book is set in Subiaco type, a face synonymous with the Ashendene Press. This face, designed for the press’ exclusive use, was based on the 15th century type that Arnold Pannartz and Conrad Sweynheym used to print the first books moveable type books produced in Italy. To cater to an Italian readership, the German blackletter used by Gutenberg was evolved into a new half-Roman half-blackletter face that would go on to form the basis of Ashendene’s Subiaco type some 400 years later. Although Subiaco is probably now the face most closely associated with Ashendene, the press had printed earlier books with Fell type and would print four later books in another proprietary face called Ptolemy. Subiaco face shows its blackletter roots by presenting a solid and even mass of black on the page. That’s less evident in a book of verse like the one considered here than it is in densely printed prose, but the result is still a distinctive example of typography. The text in this edition was hand-set by St John Hornby himself.

This edition marked the only occasion on which Ashendene published a literary first edition and Colin Franklin, in The Ashendene Press, describes its publication as “the one and only event of literary significance in the history of the Ashendene Press”. Poetry is not my usual genre of choice and I do not feel qualified to pass any critical comment on the writing. But a number of the poems did resonate with me for their wistful charm, especially the poem titled “After Heine”.

The quality of printing here is very good and one sees that the Ashendene reputation for excellence in putting text to page is well-deserved. Each poem opens with a large capital designed by Graily Hewitt and printed alternatingly in red and blue ink, which also helps to give the pages that distinctive “Ahsendene look”. There’s also a three-line explanatory note printed in red on page 15, and a line printed in Greek on p19.

As usual, the book ends with a colophon reading “Printed by St John Hornby at the Ashendene | Press, Shelley House, Chelsea, for Robert | Bridges, Poet Laureate, in the month of De- | cember of the year 1914. | Eighty-five copies on paper & six on vellum.”

This was my second Ashendene Press book. While even more austere than the first, Vita di Santa Chiara, I found myself enjoying it more. It somehow captures the humble essence of those early pioneers of private press, which still having a bit of that Ashendene magic. I certainly consider it a privilege to be the custodian of this scarce piece of publishing history. ■

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Paul Auster‘s The New York Trilogy is a classic of American postmodern literature comprising three (very) loosely connected novellas based in and around New York. Ostensibly detective stories, any sleuthing takes a definite back seat to the books’ exploration of the protagonists’ psyches. This may disappoint those hoping for a neat plot and the usual big reveal characteristic of the genre, but does mean we get a rich and intellectually stimulating set of stories. The book was recommended to me as a good read for fans of Haruki Murakami and, while lacking the magical realism or quintessential “Japanesenesss”, it does have a similar air of weird reality about it. The book was published by The Folio Society in 2008, and that’s the edition I’ll be looking at here.

I want to start with the illustrations by Tom Burns because they are an important part of this edition and probably its main highlight. The images have a graphic, grungy modern style that is perfect to capture the slightly seedy side of modern New York. There are thirteen full-page, full-colour pictures (including a frontispiece). That’s almost double the number of many standard Folio Society editions, making the books feel generously illustrated and a bit of a visual feast.

Complementing the images, the book is set in Fournier MT with Helvetica display. The latter is the sans serif modern face that is utterly ubiquitous in signage across the Western world. Fitting, then, that the chapter headers here are framed to look like street signs, a nice and thematically appropriate touch. The other thing to say about the typographic layout is that the book has a slightly unusual tall format, measuring 280mm × 175mm (11″× 6¾″). I rather enjoyed the novelty of this shape. However, it makes for more lines on the page and the type is also a little small by Folio standards (although not by the standards of a normal trade book). Overall, one has the impression that Folio had to work a bit to squeeze everything into the book’s 251 pages. There is no introduction on this occasion.

The slipcase is a standard Folio affair covered in plain black paper. Within in a book covered in grey book cloth and printed with another grungy wrap-around design featuring New York street scenes. Beyond the style of the artwork itself, the grungy aesthetic extends to faux dirt and coffee stains that are so convincing that it took a bit of examination to convince myself that I didn’t have a dirty copy of the book. The title and author’s name feature on the spine in a handwritten style. Overall, its an effective design that I found to look nicer in-person than in photographs.

The sewn binding has black end bands and was executed in Spain. The paper is the same Abbey Wove that we find in almost all modern Folio Society standard editions. A neat touch were the end papers in New York taxi cab yellow, that complement the grey binding nicely.

Overall, this doesn’t stand among Folio’s best standard editions, but I thought it was a very nice presentation indeed. The illustrations were fitting and generous in number and the overall book design, while simple, showed sensitivity to the subject matter. For what it’s worth, I also enjoyed Auster’s slightly disconcerting tales of modern urban life. ■

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Three presses, collectively called the Triple Crown, are typically regarded as having stood at the pinnacle of the modern British private press movement. These were William Morris’ Kelmscott Press, T. J. Cobden-Sanderson and Emery Walker’s Doves Press, and C. H. St John Hornby’s Ashendene Press. The last of these was described by Colin Franklin in The Private Presses as the most gentlemanly of the presses. St. John Hornby was financially secure enough to print for pleasure rather than profit and he therefore chose to publish works that catered to his own idiosyncratic taste or that he thought would lend themselves to a certain “gaity” (via Franklin) in print.

One of Horby’s interests was a series of books published in Italian, including the one considered here: 1921’s Vita di Santa Chiara Virgine (The Life of Saint Clare The Virgin). The book was issued in a limitation of 236 copies printed on paper (only 195 of which are reported to have been for commerce; an additional ten copies were on vellum, of which six for sale). Hornby owned the original 1496 manuscript that enabled this publication.

The book is bound in white limp vellum in the fashion established by the Kelmscott Press, with green silk ties to secure the volume shut. These ties often become a bit ratty with time and I’d rather they weren’t there. The only other significant embellishment is the abbreviated gilt-tooled title on the spine. Although time is often not very kind to limp vellum, I imagine the book looked quite smart when new. We have a trimmed top edge, while the bottom and fore edges have a natural deckle. The book is printed on around 115 pages of handmade paper and is octavo-sized (210mm x 150mm).

After the front blanks we are presented with an austere title page, which reads “VITA DI SANTA CHIARA VIRGINE | COMPOSTA PER VGOLINO VERINO | CITTADINO FLORENTINO | Reprinted from the original Manuscript | with an Introduction and Notes | by Walter W. Seton | Chelsea : at the Ashendene Press | mdcccxxj.” The whole title page is printed in black in the same uniform size of Subiaco as the rest of the book.

This typeface merits a brief digression. Subiaco is the name of an Italian municipality East of Rome. It was to the abbey there that Arnold Pannartz and Conrad Sweynheym brought Gutenberg’s idea of moveable type after fleeing the sack of Mainz. They began printing the first books to be made this way in Italy. To cater to an Italian readership, the German blackletter used by Gutenberg was evolved into a new half-Roman half-blackletter face that would form the basis of Ashendene’s Subiaco type some 400 years later. This face would become the most synonymous with the press’ output, even though it had printed earlier books with Fell type and would print four later books in another proprietary face, Ptolemy.

There seems to be some dispute over the credit for Subiaco, but it seems clear that the face was cut by Edward Prince, with disputed claims of design contributions by Sydney Cockerell and Emery Walker. In any case, what Subiaco lacks in legibility it makes up for in a distinctive novelty among privately printed books of the modern era and for its even density of colour on a closely set page. A modern digital version of Subiaco is available from Cast, who also provide more information on the history of this face.

Another distinctive feature of many Ashendene books, including this one, is the inclusion of large drop capitals in red and blue ink designed by Graily Hewitt. These colour initials are further complemented by red Subiaco marginal notes, red capitulum paragraph markers, and occasional red red inline text—typographical embellishments that help to make this a visually interesting book and a nice example of the typographic design from which the press got its reputation for a beautiful page. A note at the end of the introduction explains that the original manuscript’s capitals have been printed here in blue, while rubricated sections of the manuscript are reproduced in red.

Substantively, the book opens with an introduction by scholar Walter W. Seton (who also provided the marginal notes and detailed notes at the end of the book). Seton’s text provides some historical background on the Franciscan order and Saint Claire’s role in it, as well as of the composition of the manuscript by Ugolino Verino. It is this introduction, along with the modern reproduction of an incunable manuscript of interest to Franciscan scholars, that probably led Franklin to remark that “This and Omar Khayyam are the two Ashendenes which rank as serious critical editions.”

Before we reach the text of the manuscript, we are presented with something a little unusual for this type of private press book: a collotype facsimile of the first four pages of the original manuscript. The letterpress printed type in the rest of the book is utterly timeless, but in a world of ubiquitous high quality digital reproduction these collotypes feel a little bit ordinary despite the decent colour reproduction. Nevertheless, it is interesting to compare the facsimile manuscript to the printed text (see, for instance, the example below and the corresponding page in the gallery above).

The manuscript itself is reproduced in the original Italian. I don’t read the language and am therefore reduced to being one of Franklin’s lamentable creatures who close the book “after admiring the type”. This also means I have broken my usual rule of reading a book in its entirety before reviewing it here.

The last page of endnotes is page 95, where is also printed in red “Printed by C. H. St J. Hornby at the Ashendene Press, Shelley House, Chelsea, in the County of London, and finished this seventh day of May of the year 1921.” The reverse of that leaf further notes, this time in black, “Of this edition there have been printed 236 copies on paper & 10 copies on vellum.”

Overall, this is a niche edition that won’t be for everyone. The subject matter is a little esoteric, the text accessible only to readers of Italian, and the physical make-up of the book a little crude compared to a good modern fine press edition. But I personally feel quite privileged to be the custodian of this piece of printing history and there’s no escaping the pleasure of looking at it’s beautifully set pages and gazing back into the august foundations of the private press movement. ■

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Five Days in London is Hungarian-American author John Lukacs‘ microscopic history of 24th–28th May 1940. During these days, the British government faced a crucial decision between seeking a humiliating and emasculating peace, or fighting on and risking total defeat by the seemingly invincible German armed forces. Many, most notably Lord Halifax, believed in the former course of action. But it was the conviction of Winston Churchill to the fight that carried the day and changed the course of history. The principal business of the book is an analysis of the often heated meetings of the war cabinet on these days and the context that surrounded them (such as the ongoing negotiations with France, Italy, and the United States). That is, this is a book primarily of political rather than military or social history. First published in 1999, it was issued by the Folio Society in 2011, which is the edition I’ll be looking at here.

The books comes in a fairly nice slipcase that, while no sturdier than a standard Folio Society offering, is covered in charcoal grey paper printed with the appearance of a felt texture. I find this a nice change from the usual plain slipcases for lower-end books. Within is a book bound in an eye-catching chartreuse green cloth. It is printed in black with the figure of Churchill striding toward the House of Commons. The spine is printed in black and white with the title and author’s name and the sewn binding has black and white endbands. The book measures 9″ × 6¼” (228mm × 159mm). It’s obvious that this isn’t a flagship title for The Folio Society, but it’s put together nicely enough, especially the full-cloth binding. The book was printed and bound in the United Kingdom.

Opining the cover, we are met with endpapers of the same grey paper we saw on the slipcase. The rest of the book is printed on Folio Society’s ubiquitous Abbey Wove smooth, acid free paper—224 pages of it. The copyright page gives the typeface as Scala, with Gill Sans display.

Interestingly, the Folio Society website (archived here) listed the main face as Bembo rather than Scala. Studying my copy, I’m pretty sure the text is Scala: it has a fairly distinctive lower case “b”. In any event, the type is a nice clean presentation without being showy or distracting.

By way of illustration we have 26 black and white photographic plates: one frontispiece and two clusters at about the one-third and two-thirds mark through the book. Because of the book’s microscopic focus on political events that anyway happened mostly behind closed doors, there isn’t a great utility to illustrations on this occasion. And we have all seen countless generic images of Germans marching into Paris or people trying to drum up morale on the home front. But I was glad to have images of some of the lesser known political actors for context.

Lukacs was an academic historian and it shows: this is a fairly academic text, well-referenced throughout and with thorough footnotes, but not exactly light bedtime reading. It was pretty interesting to have a forensic dissection of those five days of fateful cabinet meetings, but there were also a couple of respects in which the scholarly style rubbed me the wrong way. Chief among these is Lukacs habit of telling us the conclusions or judgements of others—including other historians—is mistaken or wrong, all to often without a clear counterargument or rebuttal. If we are going to have all the apparatus of scholarship, I’d prefer to see a proper takedown! The most egregious example of this was on p100, where Lukacs even has the temerity to question Churchill’s own claim that he would have been glad to relive 1940.

This quibble aside, one can learn a lot about the political dynamics of the 1940 War Cabinet from the book. The main analysis is divided across five chapters—one for each of our “Five Days”—although the 24th May chapter is mostly about events leading up to that day, rather than the day itself. Each chapter ends with a discussion of the state of national sentiment and morale. Perhaps this is important context, but it felt a bit disconnected from the main focus of the analysis. Bookending the five main chapters is a kind of foreword and afterword (although under the more creative titles of “The Hinge of Fate” and “Survival”).

Philp Ziegler‘s introduction provides a kind of contextual retrospective on the book, including an account of Churchill taking charge and an assessment that, yes, these were indeed the five crucial days. The book also includes a bibliography and index.

Summing up: this isn’t the kind of book you pick up on impulse at the airport departure lounge; you probably already know whether you want to read an academic analysis of five days of War Cabinet meetings or not. If you do then the Folio Society edition offers a nice reading experience with cloth sewn binding, photographic plates, and a nice original introduction. The book is widely available at a reasonable price on the secondary market. At the time of writing it can easily be had for less than £12, and I found an immaculate copy on eBay for £6.80. ■

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At some point, without any obvious justification, I had mentally (mis-)classified Daniel Keyes’ Flowers for Algernon as sci-fi “genre” fiction, meaning it wasn’t exactly top of my to-read list. I’m glad the 2024 Conversation Tree Press edition prompted me to take a closer look. This is, at its heart, a character study with a touching treatment of mental disability and a convincing depiction of the struggles of adapting to life with and without such a handicap. The edition was issued in three states (250 standard, 175 deluxe and 26 lettered). I had ordered the standard. But Tony Gear at the press was kind enough to provide on loan a copy of the deluxe state so that I could look at both below.

All states share in common a trim size of 170mm × 240mm (6.7″× 9.5″). The text was set in Monotype Centaur and FF Quixo and printed letterpress at Hand and Eye Letterpress. Centaur is a face originally designed by Bruce Rogers and is a personal favourite of mine. There are about 245 pages including the front and backmatter.

The standard state arrives in a green linen-cloth covered slipcase that feels fairly robust. A nice luxurious touch is that the interior is lined with a suede-like material. The slipcase of the standard edition was made by hand at Ludlow bookbinders.

Within is a book quarter bound in the same cloth over sides covered in a white floral paper from Rossi 1931. From a distance or in photographs the binding has a certain austere simplicity that will appeal to some readers (including yours truly. In any event, getting a bit closer reveals that the design is far from plain. Besides the fact that the book feels satisfyingly solid, that floral paper is blind debossed, has a pleasing matte surface, and is just generally excellent. This shouldn’t really be a surprise because the Rossi 1931 paper used on Conversation Tree’s Peter Pan was also superb. Overall, I consider the design to be a real triumph in subtlety. A green label on the spine bears the title, author’s name and a typographic ornament in gilt. Head and tail bands are red and white and match the red ribbon marker and crimson endpapers that have an interesting ribbed texture.

The standard copies are printed on 120gsm Munken rough paper. The relatively heavy weight of the paper is the first thing one notices, meaning the thickness of the volume belies the novel’s modest length.

What really drew my attention to this edition were the illustrations by Jacob Dhein. The main illustrations are figurative oil paintings in a loose, painterly style. There are eight of them in total, including two oversized fold-out images. In this standard edition, the illustrations are printed on a glossy photo-style paper with a white border. The bright white paper shows the illustrations well and they are printed with excellent clarity and vibrancy. Dhein’s lovely brushwork is clearly visible. There’s no doubt, these illustrations are the absolute highlight of the edition for me. I understand that Dhein does not have a long history as a book illustrator, but I would love to see him engaged by publishers for more fine editions in the future.

In addition to those eight oil paintings, Dhein has provided five line drawings (six if we include a vignette on an otherwise fairly plain title page). These line drawings were reproduced by letterpress and effectively build texture and tone through hatching. They don’t have quite the same impact as the oil paintings, but are a nice addition to the visual interest of the book.

Dhein has signed the colophon page which, in these standard copies, is unnumbered.

Conversation Tree Press has generally impressed me by offering across-the-board upgrades as one moves up through the states. Let’s discuss what’s different about the deluxe state. This again starts with the slipcase, which is still covered in linen, but now in a blue cloth with wite top and bottom ends. The lining is again a suede-like material, now in a matching white.

As one might expect, the biggest upgrade comes in the binding of the book. The quarter cloth of the standards gives way to full goatskin leather in bright white with a nice natural grain. It is intricately stamped in a wrap-around design of flowers in blue, green and gold foil. It looks impressive at a distance and is pleasing to hold up close and personal. The title is blocked in gilt on the spine and integrated into the overall design. Other changes to the binding are a gilded top edge, a move to a gold ribbon marker, and endpapers of  light blue Hahnemühle Bugra stock, an attractive laid paper.

There are two big changes to the interior. First, the paper sees an upgrade to Madrid Litho 160gsm. This is a fairly bright paper with a rougher surface texture than the Munken paper of the standard state. It’s a matter of taste, but that makes a big difference to me. 160gsm paper is pretty heavy for a long-form book, but the tactile sensation of handling it prevents this from becoming a distraction. The second major change in the in the presentation of the colour illustrations. As with other Conversation Tree Press books, the deluxe state sees plates tipped onto the Madrid Litho paper. The main advantage of this is that we get to enjoy handling that paper rather than the less tactile glossy sheets bound into the standard state.

The substantive contents of the deluxe state otherwise match those of the standard. I think it is to be applauded that Conversation Tree produces deluxe editions by upgrading materials rather than producing standard states by throwing away content.

The colophon page is again signed by Jacob Dhein. Unlike the standard state, it is also numbered. ■

At the time of writing, the standard state of Flowers for Algernon are in print and can be purchased directly from the Conversation Tree Press shop. Readers are cordially encouraged to exhaust this source before searching elsewhere.

—

For those arriving here after the books are out of print, you can search for used copies of the edition:
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Punch and Judy is a traditional outdoor puppet show common in the UK, especially around seaside resort towns. A puppet master, known as The Professor, is concealed inside a booth and operates a motley cast of characters including the eponymous violent and offensive Mr. Punch and his long-suffering wife, Judy. Although historically performed for the entertainment of adults, the show is now enjoyed by children in a slightly more mellow form. The latest book from Incline Press presents an early transcription of the play, alongside the first recorded account of the life of a “Professor”. The edition is of “less than” 160 copies and I received one on loan from the press so we can take a look below.

The first thing that impresses about this book is that is is private press in the strictest sense: not only printing and design, but also illustration and binding all took place under the roof of the press and the stewardship of Graham and Helen Moss.

Starting with the hand binding, we have boards covered in a red and white-striped paper in imitation of a traditional Punch and Judy booth. It looks like it might have been printed from a wood- or lino-cut and has an attractive homespon aesthetic. The front board bears a yellow title label with a border of typographic ornaments. Superimposed in black on the rear board is an image of a sign recording the time of the next show. The book is quarter-bound in red cloth in what I guess could be called a millimetre-style binding (the cloth covers the spine only and extends under the board covering rather than wrapping onto the front boards themselves). There is again a yellow title label on the spine. Rounding out the binding is a red and yellow head band. Overall, it’s quite a charming binding.

The text block—around 56 pages—is 170gsm Liber Charta soft white. I encountered this stock once before when reviewing the Conversation Tree Press edition of Faun. It is billed as a successor to the popular but now defunct Zerkall paper and I expect we’ll be seeing it in an increasing number of fine press editions in the future. The surface is smooth and slightly off-white and the thickness used here makes it quite pleasant to handle, as well as ensuring excellent opacity. The top edge is trimmed, while the bottom and fore edges have been left untrimmed.

The book is divided into three sections. First is an introduction by Graham and Helen Moss that deals with the history of Punch and Judy and its roots in earlier Italian performance. Next is the text of the show as transcribed by John Page Collier—the earliest written record of a performance. The text has been abridged to remove repetition. Finally, the book closes with a 19th century piece of journalism based around an interview with a contemporary Punch and Judy man. The type is set by hand in a specially-commissioned 12pt Scotch Roman and printed letterpress. But there are also a range of decorative display faces typical of the 19th century and used to especially good effect on a title page that has the look of a sign board advertising the show. This theme continues to the setting of the play itself, where the typographic plan has the austere simplicity of a Victorian edition. All of the type was set from the metal. Overall, it’s a book of several distinct parts that all gel together effectively.

The script is illustrated with a generous 15 original colour engravings by Helen Moss. In a private communication, Helen explained to me the need to invent a new process for properly registering and printing these acrylic blocks. However it was done, it must be very effective because the registration is very good indeed. More to the point, the illustrations are quite vibrant and full of the cheeky, pugnacious personality associated with Punch and Judy.

As usual, the book ends with a colophon page that is quite generous in the detail it provides. It is hand-numbered and signed by Graham Moss in his capacity as binder of the edition. Altogether, this is a well-conceived edition that remains sensitive to the 19th century roots of its text, while offering all the trappings of a nice modern private press book. ■

At the time of writing, the book is still available directly from the Incline Press . Readers are cordially encouraged to exhaust this supply before searching elsewhere.

Those reading at a time when the book is out of print can look for used copies at eBay US*, eBay UK*, AbeBooks US*, or AbeBooks UK*.

You can view what other editions from Incline Press are currently in print at the press’ online shop. Or you can browse Incline Press editions in the secondary market at eBay US*, eBay UK*, AbeBooks US*, or AbeBooks UK*.

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By far the most exciting thing to have come out of The Folio Society in the last few years, in my opinion, is a set of superb editions of novels by Japanese author Haruki Murakami. I have previously reviewed and loved Kafka on the Shore and Norwegian Wood, both for Murakami’s engaging fiction and for the thoughtful design of the editions themselves. The third entry in the series is The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, issued by The Folio Society in 2023. Let’s take a look at whether the winning streak continues.

We receive a black slipcase blocked in gilt with a circular pattern radiating from a die-cut hole. Those who read the book will come to understand the significance of this design for the plot, but I want to give as little away as possible. I don’t usually like holes in my slipcases because it seems only to detract from their primary purpose of preventing anything dirtying or damaging the book, but the thematic relevance of this particular design is so superb that I gladly embrace it as a wonderful feature.

Inside is a book in black cloth blocked in gilt and blue to the front with a scene of a star-gazing solider in a desert. The spine is likewise blocked in blue and gold with the title, author’s name, Folio Society colophon, and a vignette illustration of a tie and shirt collar. The rear is blocked with a small vignette of a curled-up tiger. The sewn binding has blue end bands. Lastly, we have blue end papers custom printed with a street scene—a different design for each of front and back. Overall, I was a little disappointed that the book was black after the relatively vibrant earlier entries in the series. But now I read the book I fully appreciate what a thoughtful design this is.

The interior design follows the template of the rest of series, set in two colours (blue and black) throughout, with Arno text and Futura display. It’s a long book (688 pages), but the generous leading enhances reading comfort. Generally, I think the typographic plan of these books is not only functional but has a clean modern edge. As usual for a modern Folio Society edition, the paper is Abbey Wove.

Like the rest of the series, Daniel Liévano returns to provide illustrations. There are seven in total, including a frontispiece and three two-page spreads. Seven images is completely standard for a Folio edition, but felt a bit ungenerous in a book of almost 700 pages, especially one at the upper end of Folio’s standard edition price scale (£85). The last illustration, for example, is about 240 pages before end of book. The Postman Always Rings Twice, by contrast, managed to squeeze seven illustrations into its 136 pages! More generous is the inclusion of line-drawn motifs, of which there are more than 50. These are simple, but add a bit of visual interest to a long book.

In any event, I can’t complain about the quality of the illustrations. We have another set of vibrant abstract pieces that cryptically embed various scenes and themes from the novel, making the images feel like interesting puzzles in their own right. The frontispiece, in particular, contains 17 miniature illustrations of an obscure nature—the back of a bald man’s head or a hanging rope ladder, for example,—and I frequently found myself flicking back as I went along, having finally understood the relevance of an additional panel to what was going on in the book.

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is a magical realism novel typical of Murakami’s style. The writing flows in that easy going way we have come to expect from the author (credit is also due to Jay Rubin for another readable translation) and the usual cast of quirky misfit characters is here. The book is more complex than Kafka on the Shore or Norwegian Wood, with more plot threads whose relevance often remains somewhat opaque right to the end of the book. Thematically, too, the book is more involved and I found this had an interesting effect on me. Upon completing my readthrough, I initially felt confounded by characters that vanished without resolution and story threads left hanging. But I also couldn’t stop thinking about the book. And the more I thought about it, the more interested in it I became. Now I feel ready to read The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle again with enthusiasm. So that’s my take: confounding but enthralling, which, after all, is the main reason to read any Murakami novel. The last few releases have been included in the Autumn collection, so here’s hoping we have a 2024 Murakami edition waiting for us just around the corner. ■

As the time of writing, this edition is still available direct from The Folio Society and I encourage readers to exhaust this source first.

You can search for and buy the edition on: eBay US*, eBay UK*, AbeBooks US*, or AbeBooks UK*.

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Note: this books shares many production details with the other Tey novels, with which it was published in series. Many parts of this review therefore reproduce commentary from my earlier review for The Singing Sands and A Shilling for Candles.

Elizabeth MacKintosh was a crime novelist of the so-called Golden Age of Detective Fiction. She published eight novels in that genre, of which seven were written under her famous nom de plume Josephine Tey. These Tey books were published in series by the Folio Society between 2010 and 2020: A Shilling for Candles, The Singing Sands, The Daughter of Time, To Love and Be Wise, Miss Pym Disposes, and The Franchise Affair. Here, I will be looking at the last of these, published in 2020. This is the second time The Franchise Affair has been published by the Folio Society—the earlier edition was published in 2001 and bound in blue cloth printed with a black illustration.

Returning to the 2020 edition, the book comes in a plain black paper-covered slipcase that is fairly standard Folio Society fair. Inside, we find a book bound in buckram and blocked with a two-colour graphic design by Illustrator Mark Smith. It’s a simple design, but one that effectively evokes classic 20th century crime fiction. The buckram cover of each volume in the series is a different colour—in this case, grey. The title and author’s name are boldly blocked on both the front board and the spine. The binding is sewn.

Inside, as is often the case for a modern Folio Society edition, the paper is Abbey Wove—a slightly off-white acid free stock. Printing and binding were carried out by Folio Society regulars L.E.G.O. S.p.A in Italy. The text is set in a serif face called Dante, which has a bit of weight to it and benefits here from generous leading (inter-line spacing). Chapter numbers and other display elements are set in a face called Station No. 5, which was also used for the titling on the cover and spine. This face helps to add to the overall noir aesthetic that suits the book.

Taking the physical makeup and design of the book into account, it represents a fairly standard Folio Society edition with few distinguishing features. By no means the height of fine publishing, but a nice copy for collectors who want a well-made book to read and enjoy.

Mark Smith’s illustrations have a bold graphic style that recalls old movie posters. This helps set the tone for mysteries set in the early postwar years. The book has seven full-page images (including the frontispiece). One thing that I appreciate is that the illustrations, which are full of drama, have been chosen to capture both characters and the environment at key moments in the plot. They really help to bring the stories to life. Overall, I consider the illustrations quite successful.

I enjoyed The Franchise Affair more than the other two Tey books reviewed previously on this blog. Although ostensibly a crime mystery, it departs from the literature’s norms by not having a clever (but invariably insufferable) detective as the protagonist, and by putting the characters’ relationships at centre stage. The ending relies on a bit of a deus ex machina and, in any event, is a bit cheesy. But it is also fulfilling in its own quaint way. There’s a particularly nice introduction by Antonia Fraser who provides a concise account of Tey’s career and a neat overview of her mystery writing in particular. ■

At the time of writing, several of the Tey books are still in print and available direct from The Folio Society.

You can search for and buy Folio Society editions of the Franchise Affair on: eBay US*, eBay UK*, AbeBooks US*, or AbeBooks UK*. Note: the eBay links will return both the newer and older editions of the book.

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Allotments is a volume of text and poems by R. P. Lister with wood-engravings by Miriam Macgregor. It was issued by the Whittington Press in 1985 in a limitation of 335 copies—300 ordinary copies (considered here) and thirty five special leather copies with an extra suite of the engravings.

The book’s has a landscape format with dimensions 10¾″× 7¾″ (275mm × 195mm). It is presented in a slipcase covered in plain brown paper. There’s nothing too remarkable about the case, but it feels sturdy enough, especially in light of the modest weight of the volume it contains. The one embellishment is a paper title label affixed to the top edge of the slipcase, which will be facing outwards if the book is shelved upright.

The book itself is quite attractively bound. We have a binding of quarter russet cloth over paper sides printed in olive green tones with repeating wood engraved vignettes by Miriam Macgregor. The green complements the russet nicely and the whole design looks quite tasteful to my eye. The same simple paper title label we saw on the slipcase appears again on the spine. The top edge of the text block is stained russet, while the bottom and fore edges are untrimmed. Lastly, the endpapers are of an oatmeal colour and somewhat tactile.

The book is printed on a text block of smooth Zerkall paper of an ivory colour. The surface has been very sympathetic to both the text and engravings, and the warm colouration is easy on the eyes. In a departure from the characteristic style of the press, the title page bears an elaborate engraved title by the illustrator. We then head into the book proper, which combined three main ingredients: prose, verse, and engravings.

The textual elements have been provided by R. P. Lister. First is a prose essay on allotments: their nature, history and social role. Interspersed between passages of this text are the poems, which all relate in some way to the subject of allotments and are often quite quirky and fun. The text is set in Bell—the prose is black ink, while the poems are printed in olive green italics. The printing is excellent as we have come to expect from Whittington.

The engravings demonstrate Macgregor’s characteristic style, which should by now be familiar to regular readers of this blog (see reviews of some of her other work here). There are over forty images ranging from small vignettes to nearly full-page displays, making this a very generously illustrated book. Viewed on a standalone basis, the pictures effectively capture the idyllic charms of a Sunday morning spent tending one’s allotment. But they also interact handsomely with the text. They are arranged artfully on the page and the dense blacks of the engravings sit especially well alongside the more subtle and delicate green of the verse text. Altogether, text and image coexist in a way that makes each two-page spread an aesthetically satisfying composition in its own right. I’m reminded of some of my favourite editions from Whittington—Britten’s Aldeburgh and Venice—which similarly treated every page like a complete canvas.

As usual, the book ends with a colophon that is hand-numbered and signed by both author and illustrator.

In addition to the Whittington Press edition reviewed here, there was also a trade edition. Although now out of print, it can be found on the secondary market for just a few pounds. They should show up in the eBay links below. ■

You can search for this edition on
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