As children, we’re told it’s wrong to judge a book by its cover. That it represents a lack of depth, surrendering to our inner whims and caprices. When there is nothing further from the truth. It’s the coverless books that lack depth, not us. This point of view is strange and dangerous.
A book without a cover is a brick that can’t repair your patio. It’s a paper weight made entirely of paper. Covers call attention to potential readers like a obnoxious sport coat or a multi-colored scarf. It’s literary peacocking. There’s just no way you can sell what’s written on page 352. The cover is a first impression. It’s who a book ought to be judged.
Can you blame someone for judging you when a leafy green is wedged between your teeth? I have many books on my shelf that were purchased without any knowledge of the subject. They were obtained purely for an interest in the cover. I am richer for embracing my superficial side. Here three such examples. The Rascal King: The Life and Times of James Michael Curley. Who was he? A corrupt Boston politician who wore fur long before Joe Namath. The Honey Hunter of Nepal. What did they do? They hunted honey. And lastly, Sexual Deviations as Seen in Handwriting. I think this one speaks for itself. The title was enough for adequate judgment.
And my bookshelf looks much better for it.
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