Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel are both respected film critics. On their PBS series Sneak Previews, Roger Ebert received top billing over Gene Siskel. When Ebert and Siskel left PBS for the greener pastures of syndication with At the Movies, Siskel assumed top billing. Was there a bloodless coup? Did Siskel triumph after a protracted, bitter contractual wrangle?
When the fall 1984 season of At the Movies began, Siskel's name displaced Ebert's as top-billed. Had Siskel counterattacked?
No such juicy story. Roger Ebert was kind enough to answer this Imponderable personally:
I Was top-billed on “Sneak Previews.” For “At the Movies,” we flipped [a coin]. He won; he gets top billing the first two seasons. Starting September 1984, it's Ebert and Siskel for the next two.
Ratings willing, they'll flip (a coin or billing) in September 1986.
Why are there two title pages in most books?
Open almost any book, including this one, and you will find that the first printed matter is likely to be the title of the book printed simply on the right-hand side. Turn the page, and you are likely to find the “official” title page, with the name of the author included, and the name of the publisher, or its imprint, at the foot of the page.
What is the purpose of that first title page? Why start a book with such a drab opening when the title information and more is provided by the elaborate and larger sized “real” title page?
The name of the first title page is the bastard title or half-title. Most of the time, it doesn't serve any purpose. But it once did.
In the early days of publishing, before mass distribution, scribes hand-printed books and there was no such thing as a title page. Books were produced by commission, so customers, usually noblemen, already knew the title and contents of the book they were buying. Books then were bound immediately upon completion and were thus protected from fingerprints and dirt.
When books began to be printed rather than handwritten, booksellers were usually the publishers as well. Printers sent bundles of hand-tied finished copies to bookstores to be bound, leaving naked pages exposed to the elements. The top page of the book was most often damaged, just as the front pages of newspapers today sometimes get pulverized or soiled. In anticipation of the problem, printers started leaving the first page of each manuscript blank. The binder would then eliminate this page when the book was ready to be bound.
The only problem with leaving the top page blank was that it hid the identity of the book. When potential customers looked at books (which were usually custom bound to the specifications of the retail buyer), they turned over the blank page to see what the title was, again exposing the first page of the book to abuse.
To solve this ridiculous problem, printers started identifying the title of the book on the front page in a style resembling our current bastard title. Although this page was still intended to be cut before the book was bound, the same problem reoccurred—once the title page became a popular feature, customers wanted it in pristine shape; there was now a need for a sheet of paper to protect the title page, but also to identify the contents of the book. Thus the bastard title was born. The reason the half-title is so simple compared to the full-title page is that it was originally not even supposed to remain in the finished book. To indicate the less than noble origins of the half-title, it is called the Schmutztitel, or “dirt title,” in Germany.
When printers began binding books immediately upon their completion, there was no longer a real function for the bastard title. The hard cover now protected the title page. The title page as we know it today, with the title, author, and publisher's name, became commonplace by the sixteenth century. The original purpose of the bastard title was probably forgotten, but it became and remains a traditional feature of most books.
Publishers, like most business folk today, are cost-conscious, and more books of late have been produced without bastard titles. Many publishers bind books only in increments of 8 or 16 finished pages. Many romance-novel series, for example, are always exactly the same number of pages. If a manuscript runs 250 words over the desired length, the book would have to be, not 1 page, but 8 or 16 pages longer than desired, thus substantially increasing the cost to the publisher. The type size could be reduced to make the extra words fit, but most likely those words will be cut. The only alternative is to fiddle around with what publishers call the oddments, all the stuff in the book is not contained in the chapters. One of the most dispensable oddments is the bastard title, a feature that cover art and book jacket titles have long rendered obsolete.
Why is the right-hand side of a book always odd-numbered?
It is not difficult to trace our method of pagination. When books were first produced, there was no prefatory material whatsoever: no table of contents, no foreword, not even a title page. The first few paragraphs of the book served the function of introducing the subject of the text and its author. Since, when bound, the first page of a book is on the right-hand side, it is logical that page one would always appear on the right-hand side.
Logical, but not quite accurate. The earliest books were not paginated at all. The title page was not introduced until around 1500. Folios, or page numbers, did not appear until well after that.
As printing spread throughout Europe, introductory material in books became more and more elaborate, and rules were developed about the precise placement of this “front matter.” From the beginning, the right-hand side was always used to display important information. Although readers may not be consciously aware of their placement in a book, we know through experience that all of the vital information we need before starting a book will be contained on the right-hand side. Here is the running order of the front matter as prescribed by Words Into Type, the premier reference book on such matters. Although not every book will contain each of these elements, they will be contained in this order and on the same side of the book. Included is the Roman numeral pagination usually included in the front matter. Notice that not only do the right-hand pages get to carry all the good stuff, but that left-hand pages will be left blank rather than be assigned the honor of possessing important front matter.
Right-hand page—the “Bastard Title,” also known as the “Half-Title” (see above Imponderable)—usually the first printed matter inside a book. Generally discloses nothing but the title of the book.
Left-hand page—the “Announcement” page—might include other books by the author or other books in the same series. But this page is usually left blank. Although almost obsolete, the frontispiece would be inserted here, if anywhere. Although the frontispiece is the one eye-arresting piece of front matter printed on a left-hand page, its function is to enhance the right-hand title page, which it faces.
Right-hand page—Title page.
Left-hand page—Copyright page. Yawn. When trying to save space, some publishers include the author's dedication here.
Right-hand page—Dedication.
Left-hand page—Blank.
Right-hand page—Table of Contents (some publishers place the Table of Contents and List of Illustrations after all of the other front matter).
Left-hand page—Table of Contents (continued), List of Illustrations (if any), or blank.
Right-hand page—List of Illustrations (if Table of Contents ran two pages) or Acknowledgments (if any).
Left-hand page—List of Illustrations (continued) or Acknowledgments (continued), or blank.
Right-hand page—Editor's Preface (if any).
Left-hand page—Editor's Preface (continued) or blank.
Right-hand page—Author's Preface (if any).
Left-hand page—Author's Preface (continued) or blank.
Right-hand page—Foreword or Introduction (if not part of text).
Left-hand page—Foreword (continued), or Introduction (continued), or blank.
Immediately before the text itself begins, it is customary to place another half-title on the right-hand side, and if the author desires, an epigraph on the left side
facing the first page of text. If there is no epigraph, the left-hand page (behind the half-title and facing the first page of text) remains blank.
All sections of the text start on the right-hand side. Many designers insist on starting all chapter headings on the right side—this is one design element that adds a patina of class to a book without the reader necessarily noticing why.
With the possible exception of the List of Illustrations, not one item in the front matter that a reader is likely to want to examine begins on a left-hand page (and some publishers always start even the list of Illustrations on the right-hand side). If the author's preface, for example, runs only one page, the next left-hand page will be left blank in preference to starting the foreword there.
Generally, all pages that are of the same paper as the text are included in the book's pagination. The pagination in most books disregards the Roman numerals in the front matter, starting the text with page one; a few begin in Arabic numbers from where they left off at the end of the front matter. The first page of text in many books is printed as page three, counting the half-title as the beginning of the book. Blank pages are always included in the pagination.
Many bibliophiles would rather return to the Middle Ages and eliminate page numbers altogether. These idealistic folks feel that because page numbers are set off by themselves in the margin of a page, they distract the reader's eye from the body of the text and pose as a nuisance to the peripheral vision. But the battle has been lost, for readers clearly seem to like folios, which, combined with the index and table of contents, make locating desired material easy.
Clearly, all of these commandments to place important features of the book on the right-hand side indicate that there are powerful psychological and design principles at work. Newspaper designers are aware that the third page of a newspaper draws the reader's attention more than the second page. In most papers, page three is the “second front page,” with page tow containing the index and lighter features. The first right-hand page inside a magazine is prime advertising space, almost as valuable as a back cover, since most readers turn to it rather than the inside front cover first.
Imponderables could find no definitive explanation for why, in a culture that reads from left to right, the right-hand side of a book steals our attention. Besides the less than startling observation that we have become accustomed to the practice, the best answer might be the most obvious. The first page of a book (not including the cover) starts on the right-hand side. In order to find the first left-hand page, we must turn over the leaf and look at the back of the first page. Is the back of anything as important or eye-catching as its front? (Remember, we are talking about inanimate objects here.) When you hear the cliché“you can't judge a book by its cover,” you assume the reference is to the font cover?
Why are there so many irregular sheets? And why are so many fancy-schmancy department stores willing to stock them?
If Dole has a pineapple that is wholesome but peculiarly shaped or not quite the desired color, it can use the fruit for juice rather than canning it as is. No branded product wants to alienate loyal customers or scare away first-time customers by providing an inferior product.
Linen makers are no different. Almost 10 percent of all sheets produced are defective in some way, usually a minor error in hemming, sewing, or printing. Jim Andes, a spokesperson for Cannon Mills, told Imponderables that his company has workers looking for imperfections throughout the production process. Cannon has managed to reduce its rate of irregulars to under 8 percent and doesn't expect that it can bring the rate down much.
What is different about irregulars in sheets and pillowcases, as opposed to just about any other product, is that consumers love to buy them and even the ritziest department stores are more than willing to sell them. And stores don't hide irregulars in the bargain basement. Two of the trendiest and most successful department stores in New York, Macy's and Bloomingdale's, featured irregulars on the covers of their latest advertising supplement in the Sunday New York Times. Why will consumers who would frown at buying “seconds” of shoes or blenders from a line to buy irregular lines?
Buyers have learned that irregulars do not have defects that affect the quality or the wear of the sheets. Although some customers think that irregulars are odd-sized, this is rarely the case. Most problems in hemming and sewing are undetectable to nonprofessionals. The sheet producers take out their labels so they won't be identified with the flawed merchandise and so larcenous types won't try to get full-price refunds for items bought at irregular prices, since most manufacturers will ordinarily unconditionally guarantee their sheets. Through sales of irregulars, the manufacturer gets a nice chunk of money form the retailer to help defray the cost of labor and materials. Although the manufacturer knows it will and up with some irregulars after any substantial production run, they are rarely sold to retailers in advance. More often, a retailer will inquire about the availability of irregulars while ordering first-quality merchandise. The linen houses can sell as many irregulars as they have with ease—irregulars are in great demand.
The department store might price a sheet that normally sells for $15.99 at $7.99 as an irregular. Obviously, their profit is less, so why do retailers bother? Because they've found out that cheap sheets are a tremendous traffic builder. Just as grocery stores have found it wise to keep the price of certain staples like milk and hamburger low (or risk being undercut by the supermarket down the block), so have department stores found irregular sheets (and to a lesser extent, imperfect towels) an inexpensive way to generate more foot traffic in the store. They are loss leaders of sorts, though few stores actually lose money on irregulars—they sell for less, but they also cost the stores less. Best of all, since consumers have come to think of themselves as crafty rather than cheap for buying irregulars, even classy department stores find that irregular-sheet sales increase business without tarnishing their quality image.
The linen industry has mixed feelings about irregulars. On the one hand, the sale of these items—that otherwise would not be sold—directly improves its bottom line and allows it to keep its prices low. On the other hand, sheet makers don't want the public to think of their product as a staple like milk or a light bulb—something that merely needs to be replaced when it is used up or worn out. Their greatest desire is for us to think of sheets as a “want” item, like a record album or a blouse—something we actively covet rather than a utilitarian substitute for the dingy sheet we've just converted into dusting rags. Unless sheets can become impulse items, manufacturers know their sales will simply be a reflection of the number of beds being sold and occupied. There isn't much growth in that.
It is difficult to sell sheets as a “want” item, making some sheets look or feel superior to “ordinary” sheets, at a greater price when department stores dangle irregulars on the covers of their advertisements for 50 percent or more off.
What is the purpose of the red tear string on Band-Aid brand adhesive bandage packages? Why did Nabisco eliminate the red tear string on the wrappers of its Saltine two-packs and four-packs?
If you have ever tried to open up a Band-Aid brand wrapper when treating a cut finger, you know how difficult it is to open up the package, retrieve the bandage, and apply it to the cut. In particular, if you follow directions and use the tear string, it will eventually slit the wrapper. But why bother? Why not just rip the paper?
The tear string was part of the original packaging of the product in the 1920s, and at the time, the tear string was state-of-the-art technology. The purpose of the string was to provide aseptic delivery of the bandage when sterility was essential, such as in surgical operations. A Band-Aid brand bandage is guaranteed to remain sterile as long as the package is intact, and the tear string allows the user to open up the wrapper without touching the bandage.
Consumers, however, who are most interested in ease and convenience, have not been wild about the tear string, and many simply rip up the paper wrapper without bothering
with the string, even if this cruder method involves touching the bandage itself. Johnson & Johnson has finally responded to consumer preferences and is experimenting with different types of wrappers for some of its newer styles of adhesive bandages. Its Tricot Mesh and Handyman line come with paper wrappers without a tear string but are just as difficult to open as the regular packages.
Another new line, however, Flexible Fabric, offers revolutionary packaging. Rather than wrapped in semi-opaque paper, Flexible Fabric bandages come in sheer plastic, so it is possible, even in assortment packages, to know exactly what size bandage you are opening. Even better, the wrapper is a cinch to open. A piece of blue plastic hangs out, with the instruction, PULL. Using one hand to hold the backing, one simply pulls the plastic with the other hand and the package is opened. No need to touch the bandage, either. It's as simple to open as a Wrigley's chewing gum package.
A spokesperson for Johnson & Johnson Products Inc. confirmed that consumers prefer the new style. Although Johnson & Johnson bandages have become identified with the red tear string, it is likely that the Flexible Fabric style of wrapper will be extended to other lines, and perhaps the red tear string, which once was the best way to deliver a sterile bandage, will be retired.
Nabisco encountered much the same packaging problem as Johnson & Johnson. It had an excellent product, Saltine two-packs and four-packs, which dominated the market in restaurant crackers. Nabisco also wrapped its product with a red tear strip, and had since the late 1940s. But Saltines were even more difficult to open than Band-Aid wrappers. It was not uncommon to see frustrated diners rip open Saltine packages with their teeth.
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