3/15/22

943 p.

People who work with books should give credit to the books that work for them. As an editor, teacher, and sometime writer, how would I have managed all these years without those classic reference books available in English? As a child in a new classroom, I learned to look right away for the World Book encyclopedia—those twenty red volumes that answered most of the questions a pre-teenager might ask. As a father of five children, all of whom often asked a good many of the questions a pre-teenager could ask, I learned to say, “You could go look it up in the World Book”—those twenty green-and-white volumes we kept on the bottom shelf of a family bookcase.

Occasionally I consulted, and was grateful for, the Encyclopedia Britannica (as over-rated as some people think it is), Webster Third New International Dictionary of the English Language (as controversial as it was at its coming-out), Roget’s Thesaurus (though English teachers sometimes suggested that that was an artificial way to pad one’s vocabulary), Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations (where speech teachers often sent us to find an apt quotation). As a reader, I learned to keep a good dictionary at my fingertips, Webster’s New World or Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate—usually both, just in case they disagreed, or one proved more insightful than the other. Just for fun, as soon as I could afford it, I added the American Heritage dictionary, for the controversial usage notes, if for no other reason. As an editor, I came to rely upon the old faithful Harbrace Handbook, and occasionally to check out a handful of other usage dictionaries from the classic Fowler’s to the more modern one by Bergen Evans. I learned when to use MLA and when to use APA manuals of style—and when to rely on the New York Times; and, just to be safe, from time to time, I resorted to Rosalie Maggio’s Dictionary of Bias-Free Usage: A Guide to Nondiscriminatory Language. (Editors can’t be too careful these days!) Just for browsing, my wife gave me the Annals of America, a year-by-year compendium of historic writings; and, of course, there was David Ewen’s New Encyclopedia of the Opera, the old Victor Book of the Opera (q.v.) and the Modern Library edition of the World’s Greatest Operas. As I grew older, somehow I found myself needing (and avoiding) the South Beach Diet, the PDR Pocket Book of Prescription Drugs, my cardiologist Dr. Mark V. Barrow’s Heart Talk, and (just in case) the Complete Idiot’s Guide to Wills and Estates.

But the one I have kept on my desk until it is frazzled, its bright red paper cover faded very nearly white at the spine, is The Concise Columbia Encyclopedia. I just noticed its claim on the front cover: “New, Comprehensive, Authoritative, the Best One Volume Reference of Facts and Information for Everyday Use in the 80s.” Well, obviously for me it’s lasted a lot longer than the 80s; it has received almost “everyday” use; and I have generally found it both comprehensive and authoritative.

I can’t remember—what was that guy’s name who had so much influence on the last Russian czar? I look up Nicholas and sure enough there he is: Rasputin, his name in small caps, meaning there is an item devoted exclusively to him. That entry will give you a good idea of how succinct, informative, and downright interesting entries can be:

“Rasputin, Grigori Yefimovich (raspyoo’tin), 1872-1916, Russian holy man and courtier. A semiliterate peasant, he mixed religious fervor with sexual indulgence. His ability to check the bleeding of the czarevich, a hemophiliac, gave him power over Czarina Alexandra Feodorovna [in small caps] and, through her, over Czar Nicholas II [also in small caps]. In 1911 Rasputin’s unscrupulous appointees began to fill high posts. After 1915, with the czar at the front in World War I [those small caps again], the government was increasingly undermined. Amid suspicions that Rasputin and the czarina were plotting to make peace with Germany, a group of nobles murdered him.” (p. 707).

There you have it—the names, the dates, the facts, and a little bit of religious fervor and sexual indulgence thrown in to keep it interesting. Just about the amount you need if you want to stimulate a quick recall, or if you need a quick explanation for an allusion you don’t understand.

A kid in class asks you, “Now just who was that Lady Godiva?” All you can call up in your mind is a naked lady. You need just a little more than that—not much, but a little bit.

“Godiva, Lady (godi’va), fl. c.1040-c.1080, wife of Leofric, earl of Mercia. According to legend, she rode naked through the town of Coventry to persuade her husband to lower the heavy taxes. The only person who looked at her as she rode became known as Peeping Tom.” (p. 336—and, sorry, no chocolates here!)

(By the way, my word processor isn’t letting me reproduce the diacritical marks that give the correct pronunciations, an important aspect of the entry; and the one-page list of abbreviations at the front tells me, if I didn’t already know, that fl. stands for floruit [flourished] and c. means circa [about]. So there.)

The items on one page (262) will give you some idea of the diversity of the entries: elementary particles (a longer than usual entry with at least ten cross references; e.g., electron, John Thomson, quantum theory, Yukawa Hideki, quarks), elephant, elephantiasis, Eleusinian Mysteries, Eleusis, elevator, Sir Edward Elgar, the Elgin family, Elgin Marbles, El Greco, Elijah or Elias, Elijah ben Solomon and Charles William Eliot.

The 950 pages of The Concise Columbia Encyclopedia (Avon, 1983) has done its work well for me. I am glad to give it the credit it deserves. Occasionally, I move on to its big sister, the Columbia Encyclopedia, or even to the Britannica. But nine times out of ten this one has been just fine, thank you! And it has proved to be as durable as a locust fencepost (see p. 487).