In the Before Times (back when I had the energy to update this blog more than once or twice a year) I had a notion that the blog itself was meant to function as a space for all of the random nonsense I wanted to write about that I couldn’t convince myself to put somewhere else. Stabs in the direction of an academic idea that didn’t have much chance of blooming into an appropriate publication, odd little obsessions, occasional observations that I just wanted to ramble about, doomed attempts at humor or fiction, and the rare book or film review — that’s what belonged here. I could pick up all of the oddities from the back burner or the printer’s floor and inflict them upon the two people and fifteen bot accounts that comprise my main readership, thereby exorcising whatever obsessive thought had driven me to write and making room for something else. This is one thing that blogs, as a format for online communication, are generally good for — they began (or so I dimly remember) as a sort of digital hybrid commonplace book/miscellany collection, curated by persons or organizations whose priorities and interests were reflected in the content they shared and the connections they maintained with others (the blogroll of days gone by…). A part of what’s awkward and interesting and kind of wonderful about blogs now, I think, is that much of the commonplace book stuff has moved to other social media formats and platforms, leaving behind some (all?) the miscellany functions.
![[Commonplace book], [mid. 17th c.]](https://live.staticflickr.com/3272/2436008271_5053d8d89f_z.jpg)
The distinction between a commonplace book and a miscellany that I’m drawing here is actually a bit idiosyncratic on my part, given the fact that we do have extant examples of commonplace books that are also called miscellanies (see, for example, Rigg’s Glastonbury Miscellany). Nonetheless, for my purpose here they are different (albeit related) things. A commonplace book is a kind of personally curated and organized collection of quotations, texts, ideas, etc., typically created by and for an individual (I have more to say about it here in a previous blog post, if anyone is curious). It’s a sort of interactive diary of assorted things one might want to remember and use later. They were originally not designed for publication, just as personal diaries were not originally designed for publication, although that hasn’t stopped a fair number of them from actually being published. The point of creating commonplace books was to use them to collect things to be used or referred to later. While these are obviously “miscellaneous” things, such a collection isn’t quite what I mean by a miscellany. In the sense that interests me here, a miscellany has more in common with an anthology than a commonplace book — it’s an artifact of the printer’s art and labor rather than the diarist’s memory. The miscellanies in question are print (rather than manuscript) collections of oddities, news items, quotations, stories, articles, images, etc., sometimes organized for specific purposes or around a particular topic or genre of writing, sometimes a bit more random. They could be found in a variety of forms, ranging from something sort of like a newspaper or pamphlet to a robust bound volume of several hundred pages. Their typical focus is upon current on contemporary material, some of it reprinted from elsewhere, some solicited for or submitted specifically for publication in the collection, but there aren’t really rules — printers do as they please.
For the next few weeks, I’m going to explore the eccentric, unpredictable wonders to be found in a print miscellany published in annual editions from 1941 to 1975 called The Saturday Book. Why? Well, first of all, because it’s kind of fun. I accidentally happened across the few volumes still in the collection in the library where I work, and was instantly hooked by the general oddity of the thing. It’s exactly the sort of magpie stuff that my brain adores, an annual print treasure trove of everything from Wodehouse essays to absurd remarks about roses to erudite and amusing tours of architectural wonders. It’s hard to explain the range of the thing, simultaneously timely and nostalgic. It is also, cleverly, not at all as unpredictable or random as it seems, and it is a triumph of book design, not simply an example of a hodge-podge of amusing or informative content. “If one book, and one book only, had to represent the full versatility and fanciful possibilities of printing today, this would be it,” said Sir Francis Meynell, commenting on the publication’s tenth volume:
It is not made in the traditional manner of a book or even of a keepsake or album. It is a ‘mixt-maxty,’ to use a pleasant old term for a medley, not merely in its contents, as are other albums, but also in its typography and illustration. Every section is designed anew to fit its theme: but so closely interwoven are theme and presentation that it is hard to determine which partner predominates. The editor and the designer must to some extent have shared functions, even perhaps on occasion exchanged them. The result is a brilliant tour-de-force…the whole is a magazine light-hearted, intelligent, civlized, and ‘amusing,’ like a clever, intimate revue.
Quoted in the publisher’s announcement of the retirement of founding editor Leonard Russell in vol. 11 of The Saturday Book, 1951 (p. 7)
The second reason I have for taking up this little weekend project is to plumb some of its oddball cultural depths and functions as a collection of the work of collectors (of things, of ideas, of words, of concepts), a sort of curatorial busman’s holiday in print format for editors. How does one make sense of its combination of evolving contemporary humor, nostalgic Victoriana, and the sense of being surrounded by people who just like talking about slightly silly paintings alongside more serious cultural critique and the occasional travelogue? I have no idea, but I’m willing to give it a whirl! Welcome to Sunday Mornings With The Saturday Book!
Next Week: A Cabinet of Curiosities
The Deaccessioned Philosopher 