Judging a Book By Its Cover

“Never judge a book by it’s cover.”  So the saying goes, at least for those who do not know how to use apostrophes correctly.  Regardless of who is telling me this trite wisdom, be it an expert grammarian or an illiterate yeoman (though that would be a rather ironic thing for an illiterate yeoman to say), I never take their advice.  I might try to, but I know covers affect me.

I recently read Lord of the Flies for the first time, and I absolutely loved it.  I expected to, and I’m glad it did not have a grotesque cover to spurn me.  Then on my last trip to the library to buy used books, where we buy nearly all of our books that we always meant to read but never did, I picked up another Golding book, The Inheritors, and thought, “What the heck – it’s only twenty five cents.”  I say that a lot when I’m at the little used book shop at the library.  I buy them in droves, flocks, mountains, hoards, heaps, clans.  Thankfully, there is no border control to stop me even when adopting in such quantity.  But I assure you I provide a loving home for my books.   

So anyway, I picked up that Golding book, barely glancing at the cover because I had just read his other book and enjoyed it so much.  I fanned through the pages to test the extent of defacement (which is a great burden to my soul, especially that caused by grisly highlighters), and seeing that it was mostly free of such sin, I gathered it into my herd, where it quickly lost itself amongst its comrades. 

I then led them to the checkout, where I paid nearly six dollars for about twelve books, deciding that one particular collection of essays was worth the hefty price of ¾ of a Starbucks Latte.  (I later decided it was worth at least five Frappucinos, so I was rather pleased.)  I left the library with a pleasant mien and a heavy sack.

Later, when I was distributing the new gaggle amongst the various sections of the library, I had a small, involuntary twinge when I placed The Inheritors upon the shelf.  I wondered at it for a moment, and then thought nothing of it and promptly left the feeling stranded.   But it returned with a vengeance when I later pulled the book from the shelf to sample it. 

There on the front of my vintage copy, which cost less than a stick of gum, was a hideous drawing of a Neanderthal, or something like it, hunched over naked in shades of brown and chartreuse, sniffing and poking at some unknown plant.  Like the sculptures of the Greco-Roman world, whose paint has long since faded, the androgynous creature has no pupils.  But ancient sculptures did not choose to let their painted eyes fade away.  The “artist” who created this cover, on the other hand, purposefully left the creature to look soulless and evil.   Opposed with this depiction is the fact that the Neanderthal is hunched over in the most polite of manners, kindly remembering to shield us and our fragile sensibilities from the private nooks and crannies of his body.  I guess in this aspect he decided to rise above the artist’s implications of his nature.

And then there is the looming question of why there is a name written in the ground next to the Neanderthal.  Did someone named Charles travel through time, perhaps like one of those hunters in The Sound of Thunder, dropping his name randomly about the landscape, hoping that it would be noticed in one of these artistic book covers?  Or is the Neanderthal merely posing in this posture, feigning ignorance, while all along he has left us a clue that he can actually write his own name?  Perhaps, like so many, he is an oppressed being, grasping at any chance he has to reveal his true potential. 

Maybe I’m being a little harsh on this Charles chap and his book cover, but can I help feeling repulsed when I pick up the book?  When I bought it, not having really noticed the cover, I could not wait to read it.  Golding was my new territory in literature, a fresh and verdant landscape I had just discovered.  But this cover could not help but remind me of vomit. 

About once a week I now pick up the book, hoping I will find in my heart some pity for its wretched estate.  But as of yet, I have been unsuccessful.  I know this is all very sophomoric of me, but I can’t help but feel distaste when a great artist like Golding is paired with such mediocrity.  I remind myself, when I think of the harm that has been done Golding’s name in publishing a book with such an abysmal cover, that I did not used to enjoy green beans or asparagus but I now like them both.  I doubt I will ever like this book cover, but I hope to one day push beyond the foul taste it puts in my mouth and arrive at the story mostly unscathed.