These were amnesties rather than threats, offering the opportunity to claim that the book had been ‘found’ rather than stolen.
Recognising that some thieves might need a monetary incentive to return the book, some inscriptions advertised a reward. Perhaps, as the book historian Erik Kwakkel has speculated, John Foss himself was a book thief. However, the original name has been scratched out, and the name ‘John Foss’ is a later addition. Either that, or they would fear that the stolen book might be traced back to its rightful owner (the medieval equivalent of indelible ink).
One states: “whoever found me or whoever took me, I am John Foss’s book”, a hopeful plea that the thief would feel compelled to return it. Some inscriptions took a more optimistic tone. Unlike locked chests and chained libraries, which physically secured books with their rightful owners, these curses depended on the religious beliefs of the potential thief – his or her fear of the repercussions of their actions. Some book curses threatened a grisly death to any potential book thief, as is the case in one manuscript in the British Library’s collection: “If any person steals this book, / He shall be hanged by a hook.” A subsequent reader or owner was unsatisfied with this mode of punishment, so inserted underneath: “or by the neck with a rope.” Alternatively, the owner would inscribe the curse themselves – often in a much less practiced hand – adding their name as a way of stamping their identity on the book Thus, the scribe would often include a short curse, or anathema, before or after the text, promising torture, death, hellish damnation, or a combination of the three, to anyone who attempted to disfigure or steal it. Therefore, once a medieval owner had spent their money commissioning and acquiring a book, they wanted to ensure that it remained in their possession. Being able to invest in a lavish illuminated manuscript was a showy display of your wealth. (The British Library) Book cursesĭue to the prodigious effort and expensive materials involved in the production of a book, it was a valuable possession. Andrew, Rochester by Radulphus de Stoke shows a 'book curse' warning against theft. This book given to the cathedral priory of St. These marks are unique, often unintentional, and sometimes humorous, records of the everyday lives of historical people. Thus, medieval owners and readers left some weird and wonderful evidence of their existence in their books, ranging from angry book curses, to wine spillages, to the footprints of their chickens. In addition, pricey handwritten books might be stolen by an enemy or permanently ‘borrowed’ by a friend. Thus, a book was likely to be walked over by a cat, nibbled by a hungry rat, or burrowed into by a worm. Medieval people shared their living spaces with a broader range of creatures than we typically do today.
Looking further back into the history of books, into the Middle Ages, their safe storage and use was even more difficult. Despite this, the library still insists that readers agree to them.īut before the 20th century, there was a real concern that a book could be burnt accidentally by a careless student with a candle. Thus, the historic rules of the Bodleian Library in Oxford, forbidding readers bring fire into the library "or kindle therein any fire or flame", seem somewhat antiquated. These are relatively safe spaces for our books, being dry, clean and, increasingly, smoke free. In addition, the usual habitat of the modern book is in libraries, book shops, and prescribed areas within our living spaces (on book shelves, or on the bedside table). Students are forbidden to annotate library books with pen or highlighter (though they often do anyway, to the disgruntlement of the next lender). Book burning stirs up powerful feelings as it is perceived as an affront to the cultural knowledge that books contain. In contrast, intentional book disfigurement is frowned upon.
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