Bookish Twitter now and then has a cathartic freakout about someone or another destroying a book for some reason or another. Living, as I do, in the age of mechanical reproduction, I am not bothered by art projects and backpacker tips. And what proportion of published books end up in the pulper? I sometimes enjoy thinking about that. I say I write about “books,” but that is a metaphor. I don’t care so much about books.
Now, the books in Christopher de Hamel’s Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts: Twelve Journeys into the Medieval World (2016), those are something else. Those are treasures, mostly invisible except in facsimile. De Hamel, a leading expert in medieval manuscripts has written a book about meeting these unique books in person. A page of The Spinola Hours (p. 541 in de Hamel), at the Getty, is to the left. Meetings fills many pages with that sort of thing.
Twelve books in twelve chapters. The Book of Kells in Dublin, the Carmina Burana in Munich, a “poem on ancient astronomy” (140) in Leiden, one of the two oldest copies of The Canterbury Tales in Wales. Gospels, psalms, books of hours. A Latin textbook on military strategy, now in St. Petersburg. A lot of variety.
Part of the fun of this book is that each manuscript is in a different library, so Meetings is also a travel book, assuming you like to visit libraries. Boy, I do. On the right we see the view from the manuscripts reading room of the Royal Library in Copenhagen (295).
Different kinds of texts, different libraries, and finally different issues in book history. De Hamel picks books that allow him to emphasize different ways to study the manuscripts. Each book stars in multiple stories. Who created the book – who were the scribes, the illustrators, the patrons, the binders? Who changed the book over time? How did the book move around? Few of the twelve manuscripts are near where they were created. Where did the materials come from? Where did the text come from?
The chapter on the Chaucer manuscript is more about the search for the identity of the scribe, for example. The one on The Hours of Jeanne de Navarre spends more time on the way the book moved. It was Nazi loot, so the story is dramatic.
The key is that de Hamel is not just showing off the manuscripts, although he does plenty of that – a page from the 15th century Visconti Semideus military manual is to the left (496). He shows how to think about them. He demonstrates the kind of evidence experts look for and the kind of arguments they make. That is fascinating. On their own, bindings, parchment, Latin in incomprehensible script – why would I care. But, no, this all goes somewhere.
De Hamel is a lively writer:
My private impression from having pages of the Book of Kells turned before my eyes, one after the other throughout the day, is that the picture pages interrupt the text and are hard to enjoy, despite all their fame. I am not even sure we can regard them as beautiful. They are spectacularly important in the history of art and their commercial value is almost beyond estimation (I write as a former employee of Sotheby’s), but they are confusing and difficult to decipher… There is too much decoration. The eye has nowhere to rest. (121)
It is not just me who can’t make heads or tails of Kells, I am happy to learn.
This is a terrific book on this subject, a great way to spend some time with superb art objects that are generally only barely visible in a case, if that. These art objects happen to be books.
