The Eric Gill edition isn’t cheap.
It’s nicely bound and all the words are there
but even after looking at it I can’t tell
you anything about the text at all.
Is it in modern English? I don’t know.
It could be in Swahili or in French.
I didn’t pay attention to the text.
Who cares about the text? I’ve read it all
before a dozen, hundred, thousand times.
I was ensorcelled by the vines
that border every page. The blunt-leaved vines,
the repetitious pattern of the vines
that varies, changes, differs page to page;
the black-line vines that Eric Gill engraved.
They all are variations on a theme
of capture and support. The people there
are living, working, loving in the vines.
Elongated, they are stretched out of shape,
almost a parody of people. Still
they laugh and plot, are sinister and kind;
but always laughing, they are caught up in the vines,
and so am I. I can’t escape the vines.