The sadness of the uncut book

I made a second trip to the British Library this week to check out some volumes. One of the books was largely uncut and had to be sent back and dealt with. I think that is rather sad. It means that this book has been sat in the Library since 1882 or whatever (over a hundred years) and it has never been read. I suppose it is a little exciting too in that I'm reading it for the first time as old as it looked (it was Thomas Houston on the atonement and intercession).

Apparently when a book is bound, trimming is the final thing that is done (or not done). Withotu this the leaves of the bound book cannot be turned. A sheet folded in quarto will have folds at the spine and also across the top, so the top folds must be trimmed away before the leaves can be turned. A signature (a section that contains text) folded in octavo or greater may also require that the other two sides be trimmed. Deckle Edge or Uncut books are untrimmed or incompletely trimmed, and may be of special interest to book sellers.

An article here reveals that the Chinese call them 毛边本 (literally, "fuzzy-edged volume"). The term refers both to uncut volumes with deckle edges, and to unopened books, in which the pages have to be sliced open by the reader. They're not especially common, and for most readers who still enjoy reading dead trees once in a while, having to slice open every other page is just another hassle. For collectors, it's a different story as the article explains.

I guessed someone would be inspired to write a poem on the subject. This sonnet is by the African-American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar

Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire, No finger ever traced thy yellow page Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rage The hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fire Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre Dost thou suggest. Nay, - impotent in age, Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage And ceasest even dumbly to aspire. How different was the thought of him that writ. What promised he to love of ease and wealth, When men should read and kindle at his wit. But here decay eats up the book by stealth, While it, like some old maiden, solemnly, Hugs its incongruous virginity!