Outside the Strand bookstore in New York. Photo: Kathleen Tyler Conklin on Flickr via CC
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The crack of the spine: why do we find wear and tear in books so comforting?

Objects that feel lived in give us a comforting feeling of having come a long way, of having been through the years and having done some hard work to get there.

For about fifteen years now I have been keeping a notebook, or multiple notebooks actually, ostensibly with the intention of jotting down ideas or thoughts before they escape off into the ether. Occasionally these thoughts result in something concrete but more often than not the scribblings are promptly forgotten about, never to be reread or pored over for long-lost inspiration.

In reality, this incessant note-taking is just another form of procrastination, no different nor more tangibly constructive than the 47,000 or so tweets that I have managed to post over a much shorter period of time. Dozens of the notebooks are piled in a drawer at home, ranging from neat little Moleskines to cheap spiral-bound jotters that I can’t remember buying. There are even some loose pages that were posted  back to me by a conscientious thief who ripped them out and kept the rest of the book (upon later recovering the bag they were in and which had been left on the Metro, I found the same thief had ignored a number of valuable items but took a copy of Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia and a Paris A-Z – it was as if I had been robbed by a latter-day Raymond Queneau). 

They bear the marks of occupational carelessness – crumpled or worn covers, smudged ink, coffee and wine stains – contain fragments of stories, lists, recipes, potted film reviews, heartfelt confessionals after bad break-ups, the occasional bad poem, ill-informed first impressions of whatever city or country I happened to be travelling in at the time. Everything is written in my cursive handwriting, which has got smaller and increasingly illegible as the years have progressed (some entries also bear the clear imprint of drunkenness). The writing is in a variety of coloured inks, of varying thickness, sometimes in pencil, of varying degrees of sharpness. A couple of the early ones even have an index system, dating from a time when I seriously thought these scribblings would constitute a corpus from which my future work might be drawn.

The notebooks are of little literary value and, even to myself, of limited interest. Yet I would be loth to ever lose them. Because they represent my most sustained bout of writing. However inconsequential this accrued graphomania might be, it is physical testimony to years of efforts to try and turn idle musings into something resembling literature.

This is one of the attractions of wear and tear. Objects that feel lived in give us a comforting feeling of having come a long way, of having been through the years (or months, as it might be). There is also the sense of having done some work. Even reading a book can be denoted by the physical mark you leave on it – the cracking of a spine, its progressive warping as you work your way to the end. Occasionally when reading a secondhand paperback, a bookmark or a dog-eared page shows you where the last owner gave up – you feel momentarily like Amundsen discovering Scott’s encampment.

If you’re up for a proper mental workout, you can annotate it as you read, notes that, unless you are an academic or a professional critic, you are probably never going to return to. These annotations will however provide delight and amusement for future owners: the American writer David Markson famously bequeathed his library to the Strand bookstore in the East Village and his dyspeptic marginalia regularly surface online. Even if one is not a heavyweight annotator, like Joyce editor Danis Rose or art dealer Tony Shafrazi, a written comment in a book is always worth stopping to read. One of a number of copies of Moby Dick I own is an old Dover Thrift edition, in which some diligent student has scribbled in the margin of page 100: “Ahab is obsessed by the whale” (though, to be fair, my own college annotations of Paradise Lost are not any more sophisticated). I always wonder if the loving dedication written on the flyleaf of my secondhand copy of Goethe’s Italian Journey enchanted or scared off the Japanese man to whom it was addressed in July 1993. The book certainly wasn’t deemed to be of lasting sentimental importance.

Physical deterioration though is more welcome in some contexts than in others. You might be perfectly happy to wear a frayed pair of jeans or a faded torn t-shirt but the tattered lining of an overcoat is likely to put you out a lot more. Similarly, people are less likely to annotate first editions or more expensive hardback books (though if you happen to have small children around the house, they will invariably take care of that for you).

The more valuable the artefact the less compelling the charm of wear and tear: restorers spend their entire careers trying to reverse the effects of time on antique artworks. It is no surprise that over the past 100 years, the word “pristine”, which for centuries meant “in its original condition” has taken on the additional meaning of “spotless”. And while we might have organic decomposition to thank for the joys of beer, wine and smelly cheeses, only a select few are able to stomach the extreme putridness of the Icelandic fermented shark, Hákarl, or the rotted Swedish herring, Surströmming. 

There are those who try to accelerate the process of deterioration, for aesthetic effect, most notably the forgers of the Hitler diaries, who doused the pages in tea to make them look decades old. Paul Thomas Anderson makes use of heat-damaged film in his Pynchon adaptation Inherent Vice to get the requisite 70s look. Robert Wise and Mark Robson, editors of Citizen Kane, dragged film across the floor of the cutting room to make the newsreel sequences look credible. There are also people who buy “ready-worn” jeans brand new. It will surely be only a matter of time before someone actually markets Flann O’Brien’s Buchhandlung service, which offered to appropriately scuff the libraries of those who just don’t have the time to read.

But real wear and tear takes a long time, and patience too. You’re not going to make your brand new copy of The Magic Mountain look read without working your way steadily through it. The adjective “well-thumbed” tends to suggest a certain monomania regarding a text but in many cases it can be a virtuous one. And there is something thrilling in seeing great writers in manuscript form, the crabbed minuscule handwriting of Walter Benjamin or Robert Walser or Nabokov’s index cards. There you get both the human imprint of the writer, which is normally obscured by the uniformity of print, and the sense of their toil, the crossed out words, the revisions, the messiness of creation, something that even multiple drafts typed up on a computer can’t convey. 

James Joyce, almost blinded by glaucoma in later life, composed Finnegans Wake in thick blue crayon, some of it on sheets of wallpaper. That is probably the ultimate physical embodiment of a writer’s labour, the rudest totem of all that effort and all those years of work.

Oliver Farry is an Irish writer, journalist and translator living in Paris.

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Only Drake could wow the O2 by pointing out random audience members' clothing

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through.

On the last London night of his Boy Meets World tour (20 March), Drake doesn’t come on stage until 10pm, which is enough to kill off most gigs at the O2 Arena (hello, Bieber), as people are worried about getting the Tube home. The amount of rum and Coke in the room – a steaming, unrecognisable space with a false ceiling of globular lights and a stampeding crowd split in half by a fence – certainly helps keep the buzz. But who’d have thought that a man standing onstage diligently pointing at audience members and saying what they’re wearing (“You in the blue dress shirt with the ­lager!”) would constitute one of the most exciting nights the O2 has seen in a while?

“Tonight is not a show, not a concert, not about me,” says Drake, who runs an annual “Drake Night” in Toronto and once visited Drake University in Iowa.

So far, the world’s favourite rapper – his latest album, More Life, recently got 90 million streams on its first day of release on Apple Music alone – has had a shifting identity. His songs capture a new strain of emotionally literate but solipsistic hip-hop, which can feel intense or whiny depending on how you look at it. His offstage behaviour is Type-A rapper – he has been accused of throwing beer bottles at Chris Brown, he has been punched by Diddy and he has had altercations with Jay Z, Kendrick Lamar, Pusha T and Ludacris.

But Aubrey Drake Graham, the son of a white, Jewish mother and an African-American father who once played drums alongside Jerry Lee Lewis, does skits about his petulance on Saturday Night Live (see “Drake’s Beef”). Emotionally demonstrative, openly dysfunctional, a bit of a bruiser, with an ability to flit between a dozen styles of music while expressing a desire for crowd participation that borders on the needy . . . Could this man be the ­Michael Bublé of hip-hop?

Drake’s sprawling two-hour roadshow is held back from chaos by the force of his physical presence. Blunt-headed with muscular, sloping shoulders and mesmerising, nimble feet, he prowls the edge of the stage. He has had so many hits (and has so many guest stars tonight) that he is not interested in playing them all the way through. Instead, recalling Prince in the same venue ten years ago, the show becomes a series of medleys. With just a drummer and a synth player at the back of the stage, he demonstrates an invisible, physical control over the music, operating it like a string puppet, stopping or starting songs with the drop of a foot or the shrug of a shoulder, so they collapse in the middle and are gone.

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through. Pointing at people in the audience, real or imaginary, is a music hall thing. Bruce Dickinson and Metallica’s James Hetfield do it too. Amid a hokey message to follow your dreams, he recalls his time spent singing for $200 a night as a John Legend tribute act. Cue a perfect demonstration of Legend-style singing – before he suddenly sloughs off “all this bathrobe-and-candle-sexy acoustic Ed Sheeran shit”, while huge columns of flame engulf the stage.

Drake is still at his best with blue, slinky songs of alienation – “9”, “Over”, “Feel No Ways” and “Hotline Bling”, which doubles up as make-out music for the couples in the crowd. One pair of lovers, Drake establishes during one of his crowd surveys, have been together for ten years. “I can’t even make a relationship last ten days,” he laments. In 2012, he told the Guardian, “I’ve had too many girls to ever feel uncomfortable about the man that I am.” An old-school boast from a modern man.

The guest stars serve to highlight Drake’s variety, rather than shine on their own. Their songs, too, are started, suspended, chopped and screwed. Drake is more macho when there’s another guy onstage with him – doing “Successful”, with the literally named Trey Songz, or dueling with thefrenetic Skepta, who sounds so much tougher (maybe because he’s a Londoner). The two whirl around the stage like helicopter seeds.

Nicki Minaj, apparently Drake’s one-time lover, rises fembotishly from a hole in the stage and says in a London accent, “I want some fucking crumpets and tea.”

She adds, of her host, “This nigga single-handedly changed the game.” Minaj sings her song “Moment 4 Life”: “I call the shots, I am the umpire . . .” But she doesn’t really. Even her presence flares up quickly and is gone.

Kate Mossman is the New Statesman's arts editor and pop critic.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution