I am a book-lover, by which I mean I love more than just reading. I love books, hardcovers in particular. I love the weight of them, the dry kiss of the paper, the smell of a freshly cracked spine. I love matt dustjackets and blurbs that fib and critical quotes gratuitously taken out of context. Mostly, I love the way all my books (too many, not enough) bring me peace just by standing at attention along my bookshelves.
But where is the pleasure in increasingly having to put up with hardcovers that are drab, unremarkable and sometimes downright hideous? Surely with such savage competition from supermarkets, the internet and the ever-promised threat of e-books, publishers ought to be making their hardcovers more appealing, not less. Have you seen the new Margaret Atwood? Don't worry if you think you haven't — the design is so plain it looks like a mental health handbook from 1950s Kansas. It's not just the jacket (worryingly credited to «Webb & Atwood»): the board colour, the pages, the layout, all as drab as can be.