What a Big Book
WIIAT a nice book, what a lovely book, what a beautiful book, what a BIG book! What kind of a book? Why a PICTURE book—for Christmas, of course, to match the carols, the pantomime, the jolly games, the gluttony, the commerce. Welcome to the publishers, enterprising as ever, who supply a Midas touch in the upmanship of seasonal gifts in a range of very pricy articles: more bulk, more pictures, reading matter reduced to a minimum, and, where this is absolutely necessary, printed in outsize type so that eye shall not have to make any effort whatsoever. Books not to be read, merely given away. Not for bed: their weight might suffocate unwary sleepers. Not for afternoon reading: bulk on stomach is cruel to an ulcer, and no joy in the bath either. Lovely to have around. Where to put it is the problem. Let's not be mean; praise must be given where expected. A book is a book is a book is a book, cr is it only a present?
Top of the list for that Top-Person-to-be is Treasures of the Louvre (Weidenfeld and Nicol- son, two volumes, 7 gns. each) for someone Sou wish to impress (cultural taste on both sides assumed), and to flatter, gently that is, with giving that little something extra, in this case two books in one. A selective illustrated catalogue (120 full colour, 540 black and white), ranging from The Fourth Millennium BC to the Dawn of the Renaissance' (Volume 1) to 'Renaissance to Impressionism' (Volume 2). Text reduced to strictly informative data, and there's nothing against that. Everything is under authority of the Louvre's Chief Curator, Jean Charbonneaux, introduced by the editors of Wallies. Why is it
that I, who love the Louvre, don't actually want to own this book? Can it be that my memory serves me better? Why, after looking at every picture in this book, do 1 fail to remember one? Something to do with satiety? Something to do with imagination? It's very handsome, oh very handsome in its production, villainously so. yet wasn't there a gay deceiver in that handsome man?
Less ostentatious, shrewder no doubt, the gift- bearer of Antiques International (Michael Joseph, £8 8s.), a Collector's Guide to Current Trends, being a collection of extremely able essays by various authorities under the general editorship of Mr Peter Wilson of Sotheby's. Variety is the spice of life, so they say: Buttons (Jane Ford Adams), Prayer Rugs (Lynne Thornton), Art Nouveau Jewellery (Graham Hughes), Early American Furniture (Ian McCallum), Fans (Peter Thornton—I like this), Tobacco Figures as Shop Signs (George Hartman), are some of the offerings for further education. I almost forgot, loads of fascinating and luscious pictorial matter. With all this information memorised one need never be at a loss for general con- versation : this has potentialities.
Picture books, more or less simple if not abso- lutely pure, are Witness to Our Time, by Alfred Eisenstaedt (a Studio Book, £5 Ss.), and Nomad : A Pictorial Odyssey, by David Douglas Duncan (Paul Hamlyn, £5 5s.). Both Mr Eisen- staedt and Mr Duncan are celebrated photo- graphers (each holding a Life magazine star). Mr Eisenstaedt gives us a panoramic illustra- tion of the faces and events of the last half-
century and has a definite aim: to startle us, and stress political and social absurdities. Mr Duncan is an American boy nude good, and he tells us all about it in a punchy collegiate letters-home-to-mom style : his selection of photographs from home and abroad offers us in- sight into his motivation. Home is a man's country, hunting. fishing, Hemingway-inspired.
Rather less pricy is Larousse's Encylopaedia of Modern History (Paul Hamlyn)—now only 30s. It's exactly what it says it is, and not bad for a teenager.
Something a little special, the gift for the con- noisseur, is Sigfred Taubert's Ilibliopola (Pen- guin Press, two volumes, £21 10s.), Pictures and Texts about the Book Trade. It wears such a fine first-edition air that I almost fell under its spell. Who to give it to? To a publisher? To a bookseller? 'Printed in English, French and Ger- man, it demands respectful attention. Certainly it has a panache about it : it reminds me of the kind of book 1 was told to look at when as a child I was taken visiting important elderly people (and don't talk). Clearly a bibliophile's item.
Now for the surprise at the bottom of the stocking : an annual without pictures, Playboy Reader, edited by Hugh M. Hefner (Souvenir Press, 63s.), being a selection from past Play- boys. There's enough simple reading matter from classified best and leading masculine writers (don't fear, not a woman among them) to satisfy the man (and he'd better be a man) of your choice. Stories, science-fiction, commentary, humour, interviews and some poetry, all neatly
packaged together : very smart this, like a swanky after-shave lotion. And, oddly enough, it's not over-heavy: one could read it in bed. Let no one be put off by my preferences (have I any here?) in this batch of books for Christmas- giving; there's something, as they say, for every- one, but who exactly is everyone?
KAY DICK
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