Bibliophobes

I

Woman, in whom all one’s love must be placed,

All one’s hope and all—at bottom—one’s confidence,

Nevertheless aggrieves the heart, shadow and nuance,

Of the good bibliophile, although he be born for peace

And the repose promised unto him from day to day

Who from the Book ekes out his living, and launches

Into that ingenuous gulf of calm and silence

His ancient fever and what comes by the way.

Woman, angel and demon, as saith a famous distich,

Is naturally submissive... and despotic,

And naturally plaintive and... tough to boot!

Go on, come on when, in a chapter’s middle

Written God knows how much! printed under what title!

Interrupted, say not, in the end: ...Thank you!

II

Behold now all along, along the very sinet

One has laid out strict for ends quite serious,

And it may be, one’s not young still... curious!

An insect, pretty also, somehow has wormed in it.

In this labor of an art which, though yet silent,

Is no less eloquent for that, voices joyous

To the eyes, a concert of bindings sumptuous,

In the Book in a word—delicate and thin,

Of silver, that quicksilver might even be, so wee

And quick! A fish quite small, as handsome as a king,

And with a certain pure and svelte allure you can’t deny,

In a royal mantle palely gleaming, wave and flame:

It’s the Bookmite. Needs must crush the living Shame:

Yet it’s so very sweet you’ll have to spare its life.

Paul Verlaine