Letter Press: The Blocks that Imprison Magic !
The book project requires reining in many skeins of activity to keep the motivation high. Today was the visit to the Printer.
He sits on the third floor of an oblong cement building, with lime washed walls washed solid three bricks thick. Inside its cool from the harsh mid day sun, the ceiling high and fan less. I notice the facade has a fresh paint but little else has changed.
The book cover design is studied and approved. We chat about time lines and other sundry matters.
I want the cover in matt finish.
On the way down I stop at the 2nd floor. A huge letter press sits majestic and Shelley's lines spring to my mind:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
I pass the silent giant and enter a room that reads: typeset
There resting on rich rosewood racks, slats, and cupboards are the manual letters, fonts of different shapes & squiggles waiting to get on to the wooden board and transport a reader from the author's manuscript to a book store shelf.
The smell of ink has seeped out, the shelves covered by dust and yet the letter press fonts are not ashamed; proud of their vintage birth they are happy to lie in idle indolence while young designers squint at their screens and arrange the pages in a sterile boring odourless, airless room.
You have a fortune there , I tell the Printer. We both smile but for different reasons.
The book project requires reining in many skeins of activity to keep the motivation high. Today was the visit to the Printer.
He sits on the third floor of an oblong cement building, with lime washed walls washed solid three bricks thick. Inside its cool from the harsh mid day sun, the ceiling high and fan less. I notice the facade has a fresh paint but little else has changed.
The book cover design is studied and approved. We chat about time lines and other sundry matters.
I want the cover in matt finish.
On the way down I stop at the 2nd floor. A huge letter press sits majestic and Shelley's lines spring to my mind:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
I pass the silent giant and enter a room that reads: typeset
There resting on rich rosewood racks, slats, and cupboards are the manual letters, fonts of different shapes & squiggles waiting to get on to the wooden board and transport a reader from the author's manuscript to a book store shelf.
The smell of ink has seeped out, the shelves covered by dust and yet the letter press fonts are not ashamed; proud of their vintage birth they are happy to lie in idle indolence while young designers squint at their screens and arrange the pages in a sterile boring odourless, airless room.
You have a fortune there , I tell the Printer. We both smile but for different reasons.
Unforgettable Literary Pairs
Jiggs & Maggie:
Bringing up Father
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