Reply
Wed 12 Aug, 2009 07:21 pm
so i buy this book about a month ago, and i start reading it, i get to page 170 and the next page is 43, the book repeats itself, and then picks up the story at page 219 and continues to the end at page 272
i go on the bookstores website and see they have 1 copy in stock at the location i purchased my copy from and 2 at another, i return my copy and check the one on the shelf, it's the same defect, i take to the counter they thank me and when i mention that their other store has 2 copies, they say they'll call over and have them check them out
i look around and not seeing anything i'm interested in i take a credit and leave
on the way home i detour to the other store, there's one copy of the book on the shelf and i check it out and the end of the book is fine, i'm happy, i'm going to get my book after all, on the way to the counter i get this idea to check the front section of the book, at page 42, the book jumps to page 171, the reverse defect of the other books, i take it to the counter and they thank me for alerting them
i've had books with binding problems before, but that situation was weird, i've got a hardcover copy of T H White's The Once and Future King, that's all there but bound in the wrong order
i alerted the publishers (UK) and the author (UK) to the situation, the canadian representatives for the publisher don't list an e-mail, but i'm gonna send them a letter
anybody else got weird book stories
have you by any chance read "
house of leaves"?
@djjd62,
My God, man! If it was written by a "collectable author" you've tossed away a priceless collector's item.
It was intentional in "House of Leaves" so I don't think that counts.
I bought some parenting book when Mo first came to live with us (since given away so I don't know the title) that did the same thing -- repeating chapters instead of moving forward -- at a really important section. The bookstore made me send it back to the publisher since it was not a book that they stocked regularly. It took forever to get a new copy. Grrrrr.
I notice typos, etc. in almost every book I buy but that parenting book was just nutty.
@roger,
an interesting sci-fi/fantasy, but probably not collectible
@boomerang,
typos, i'm reading abook now that suffers froma bad case ofjammed together words
@djjd62,
Oh, dang! I thought the thread title was "Detective Books" and that I'd get some good tips on the latest by, say, Sue Grafton or P D James or reissues of Dashiell Hammet or Agatha Christie.
But, as for your query, can't say I have any personal experience but I recall reading somewhere or other that the original publication of Joyce's
Ulysses had two chapters transposed in the binding process. Some young sharp-eyed reader caught the error. When he pointed it out to the editors of a literary magazine, he was told, rather archly, that this venue was not one where "fledgelings try their wings." He was vindicated, however, when James Joyce himself browsed through a copy and caught the error.
@Merry Andrew,
i'm not a big detective fan, but my mom reads lot's of mysteries, her newest fave is a series by Barbra Nadel set in turkey
wow
got this email today from the author
Hi Joe,
Thanks very much for bringing this to my attention. I've passed the info on to my publishers who have said that they wil send you a complimentary - and correct! - copy of The Ninth Circle. I hope that you'll enjoy it and I'm sorry that it's been such a problem finding a proper copy. Hopefully this error will be sorted out now that we know about it.
Cheers,
Alex.
that's good PR
I have only very rarely seen errors as bad as the one you describe in your opening post, Dj . . . but i also very rarely see any book of any type that doesn't contain at least one typesetting error, or a failure in the editing. Some are worse than others. Academic books are the ones i find most likely to be free of errors, and these are still flawed by the inept use of language on the part of their authors, something which editors were intended to remedy, although it appears editors don't see it that way.
@Setanta,
there was obviously a huge screw up in the binding
if the pages had simply been transposed it would have at lest been readable, but to have chunks missing and repeated, and have a sort of mirror image defect between the two books
i wish i would have seen the second book before returning the first, i might have bought it, i would have had one complete book and two pretty interesting defects
I saw something similar once, but i don't recall the details. I do recall that the text was complete, and that i was obliged to jump around to follow it.
This reminds me of Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveler. The protagonist goes to the store to buy If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, finds a binding error similiar to yours, one that makes it impossible to complete the book. He returns the book and the bookstore clerk informs him that the novel he was reading was not Calvino's book at all, but rather one by a Polish author. The protagonist then purchases this boook, which he finds, after a chapter, is also defective.
And so on. For different reasons the protagonist is continually unable to finish the next book. So that Cavlino's book is really an amalgam of disparate novel fragments, through which is wended the narrative of the reader.
Totally good.
@Gargamel,
wow, it's been almost thirty years since i read that book, and it didn't even occur to me until i read your post
wonder if i still have my copy tucked away somewhere, may have to give it another read
best intro to a book ever, the whole set up on how to read a book
Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler
(A selection from the first chapter)
You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice--they won't hear you otherwise--"I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell; "I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone.
Find the most comfortable position: seated, stretched out, curled up, or lying flat. Flat on your back, on your side, on your stomach. In an easy chair, on the sofa, in the rocker, the deck chair, on the hassock. In the hammock, if you have a hammock. On top of your bed, of course, or in the bed. You can even stand on your hands, head down, in the yoga position. With the book upside down, naturally.
Of course, the ideal position for reading is something you can never find. In the old days they used to read standing up, at a lectern. People were accustomed to standing on their feet, without moving. They rested like that when they were tired of horseback riding. Nobody ever thought of reading on horseback; and yet now, the idea of sitting in the saddle, the book propped against the horse's mane, or maybe tied to the horse's ear with a special harness, seems attractive to you. With your feet in the stirrups, you should feel quite comfortable for reading; having your feet up is the first condition for enjoying a read.
Well, what are you waiting for? Stretch your legs, go ahead and put yuour feet on a cushion, or two cushions, on the arms of the sofa, on the wings of the chair, on the coffee table, on the desk, on the piano, on the globe. Take your shoes off first. If you want to, put your feet up; if not, put them back. Now don't stand there with your shoes in one hand and the book in the other.
Adjust the light so you won't strain your eyes. Do it now, because once you're absorbed in reading there will be no budging you. Make sure the page isn't in shadow, a clotting of black letters on a gray background, uniform as a pack of mice; but be careful that the light cast on it isn't too strong, doesn't glare on the cruel white of the paper gnawing at the shadows of the letters as in a southern noonday. Try to foresee now everything that might make you interrupt your reading. Cigarettes within reach, if you smoke, and the ashtray. Anything else? Do you have to pee? All right, you know best.
It's not that you expect anything in particular from this particular book. You're the sort of person who, on principle, no longer expects anything of anything. There are plenty, younger than you or less young, who live in the expectation of extraordinary experiences: from books, from people, from journeys, from events, from what tomorrow has in store. But not you. You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst. This is the conclusion you have reached, in your personal life and also in general matters, even international affairs. What about books? Well, precisely because you have denied it in every other field, you believe you may still grant yourself legitimately this youthful pleasure of expectation in a carefully circumscribed area like the field of books, where you can be lucky or unlucky, but the risk of disappointment isn't serious.
So, then, you noticed in a newspaper that If on a winter's night a traveler had appeared, the new book by Italo Calvino, who hadn't published for several years. You went to the bookshop and bought the volume. Good for you.
In the shop window you have promptly identified the cover with the title you were looking for. Following this visual trail, you have forced your way through the shop past the thick barricade of Books You Haven't Read, which were frowning at you from the tables and shelves, trying to cow you. But you know you must never allow yourself to be awed, that among them there extend for acres and acres the Books You Needn't Read, the Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading, Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written. And thus you pass the outer girdle of ramparts, but then you are attacked by the infantry of the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered. With a rapid maneuver you bypass them and move into the phalanxes of the Books You Mean To Read But There Are Others You Must Read First, the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered, the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback, Books You Can Borrow From Somebody, Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You Had Read Them, Too. Eluding these assaults, you come up beneath the towers of the fortress, where other troops are holding out:
the Books You've Been Planning Top Read For Ages,
the Books You've Been Hunting For Years Without Success,
the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment,
the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case,
the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer,
the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves,
the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified,
Now you have been able to reduce the countless embattled troops to an array that is, to be sure, very large but still calculable in a finite number; but this relative relief is then undermined by the ambush of the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Now Time To Reread and the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them.
With a zigzag dash you shake them off and leap straight into the citadel of the New Books Whose Author Or Subject Appeals To You. Even inside this stronghold you can make some breaches in the ranks of the defenders, dividing them into New Books by Authors Or On Subjects Not New (for you or in general) and New Books By Authors Or On Subjects Completely Unknown (at least to you), and defining the attraction they have for you on the basis of your desires and needs for the new and the not new (for the new you seek in the not new and for the not new you seek in the new).
All this simply means that, having rapidly glanced over the titles of the volumes displayed in the bookshop, you have turned toward a stack of If on a winter's night a traveler fresh off the press, you have grasped a copy, and you have carried it to the cashier so that your right to own it can be established.
You cast another bewildered look at the books around you (or, rather: it was the books that looked at you, with the bewildered gaze of dogs who, from their cages in the city pound, see a former companion go off on the leash of his master, come to rescue him), and out you went.
You derive a special pleasure from a just-published book, and it isn't only a book you are taking with you but its novelty as well, which could also be merely that of an object fresh from the factory, the youthful bloom of new books, which lasts until the dust jacket begins to yellow, until a veil of smog settles on the top edge, until the binding becomes dog-eared, in the rapid autumn of libraries. No, you hope always to encounter true newnewss, which, having been new once, will continue to be so. Having read the freshly published book, you will take possession of this newness at the first moment, without having to pursue it, to chase it. Will it happen this time? You never can tell. Let's see how it begins.
Perhaps you started leafing through the book already in the shop. Or were you unable to, because it was wrapped in its cocoon of cellophane? Now you are on the bus, standing in the crowd, hanging from a strap by your arm, and you begin undoing the package with your free hand, making movements something like a monkey, a monkey who wants to peel a banana and at the same time cling to the bough. Watch out, you're elbowing your neighbors; apoligize, at least.
Or perhaps the bookseller didn't wrap the volume; he gave it to you in a bag. This simplifies matters. You are at the wheel of your car, waiting at a traffic light, you take the book out of the bag, rip off the transparent wrapping, start reading the first lines. A storm of honking breaks over you; the light is green, you're blocking traffic.
You are at your desk, you have set the book among your business papers as if by chance; at a certain moment you shift a file and you find the book before your eyes, you open it absently, you rest your elbows on the desk, you rest your temples against your hands, curled into fists, you seem to be concentrating on an examination of the papers and instead you are exploring the first pages of the novel. Gradually you settle back in the chair, you raise the book to the level of your nose, you tilt the chair, poised on its rear legs, you pull out a side drawer of the desk to prop your feet on it; the position of the feet during reading is of maximum importance, you stretch your legs out on the top of the desk, on the files to be expedited.
But doesn't this seem to show a lack of respect? Of respect, that is, for for your job (nobody claims to pass judgment on your professional capacities: we assume that your duties are a normal element in the system of unproductive activities that occupies such a large part of the national and international economy), but for the book. Worse still if you belong--willingly or unwillingly--to the number of those for whom working means really working, performing, whether deliberately or without premeditation, something necessary or at least not useless for others as well as for oneself; then the book you have brough with you to your place of employment like a kind of amulet or talisman exposes you to intermitten temptations, a few seconds at a time subtracted from the principal object of your attention, whether it is the perforations of electronic cards, the burners of a kitchen stove, the controls of a bulldozer, a patient stretched out on the operating table with his guts exposed.
In other words, it's better for you to restrain your impatience and wait to open the book at home. Now. Yes, you are in your room, calm; you open the book to page one, no, to the last page, first you want to see how long it is. It's not too long, fortunately. Long novels written today are perhaps a contradiction: the dimension of time has been shattered, we cannot love or think except in fragments of time each of which goes off along its own trajectory and immediately disappears. We can rediscover the continuity of time only in the novels of that period when time no longer seemed stopped and did not yet seem to have exploded, a period that lasted no more than a hundred years.
You turn the book over in your hands, you scan the sentences on the back of the jacket, generic phrases that don't say a great deal. So much the better, there is no message that indiscreetly outshouts the message that the book itself must communicate directly, that you must extract from the book, however much or little it may be. Of course, this circling of the book, too, this reading around it before reading inside it, is a part of the pleasure in a new book, but like all preliminary pleasures, it has its optimal duration if you want it to serve as a thurst toward the more substantial pleasure of the consummation of the act, namely the reading of the book.
So here you are now, ready to attack the first lines of the first page. You prepare to recognize the unmistakable tone of the author. No. You don't recongize it at all. But now that you think about it, who ever said this author had an unmistakable tone? On the contrary, he is known as an author who changes greatly from one book to the next. And in these very changes you recognize him as himself. Here, however, he seems to have absolutely no connection with all the rest he has written, at least as far as you can recall. Are you disappointed? Let's see. Perhaps at first you feel a bit lost, as when a person appears who, from the name, you identified with a certain face, and you try to make the features you are seeing tally with those you had in mind, and it won't work. But then you go on and realize that the book is readable nevertheless, independently of what you expected of the author. It's the book in itself that arouses your curiosity; in fact, on sober reflection, you prefer it this way, confronting something and not quite knowing yet what it is.
I found out that these type of printing errors are common. I was once reading a book and ¾ of the way into it, I skipped a whole slew of pages. I did not have the receipt as I had the book for a bit, but figured under the circumstances I would imagine the book store would exchange it. They person at the book store informed this happens quite a bit. Books are put together in certain number of pages so it is not unusual for a section to be missed or misplaced within a book.
The typos are an editing mistake whereas the pages stuff is a printing issue.
@djjd62,
If you had some writing ambition, I would suggest you write this into some kind of film script and try to sell it to Charlie Kaufman, one time director, producer and writer of Synecdoche, New York (2008), Adaptation. (2002) , and Being John Malkovich (1999). The bizarre convoluted story you could turn about a man trying adapt his world so he can read a single novel by switching different books and different reading positions, (hanging from the ceiling, perpedicular to the wall, etc...) sounds like it would be up his alley.
, no
Stumble It!
Tweet This
Bookmark on Delicious
Share on Facebook
Share on MySpace