“Nothing about this place seemed particularly special or important”
- Velvet
Ephemeral Nature
I have a tendency of collecting ephemera, and I enjoy prolonging its lifespan, until it goes beyond the status of disposable and reveals other facets of itself.
Objects, just like ourselves, carry stories and significance that often lie beneath the surface; deeper purposes and potentials only unfold when looking beyond first impressions.
This is the story of one such object, a 2 by 2 inch booklet titled *Edge of the Known World*, a narrative about a journey and the risks and rewards of venturing into the unknown.
Also, it’s a memory about bookbinding, and how sometimes, through the restoration of a thing, we find ourselves reflected in it, repairing ourselves in the process.
A Broken Book Waiting for Healing
The first time I saw the book it was already in pieces, stored in a dusty zip bag, on a table full of other trinkets, pendants, rings, and bracelets. It was like a bunch of forgotten fragments among brighter distractions, and despite being notorious for its state, none seemed to be paying attention.
It was a giveaway: “Take whatever you want!” I remember the message saying. It’s curious how life constantly gives us choices that lead to different meanings depending on our decisions. So, driven by my curiosity, I took the book, keen to know about its contents.
When I got home and looked at the pieces scattered around, I felt like looking into a strange mirror: a resemblance to the state of my life: fragmented and unable to create cohesion.
Maybe that’s what attracted me to the book in the first place, and why I was so driven to restore it. When we start with the most trivial of changes, those grow until they have a greater impact than initially suggested. In other words, fixing a tiny book could lead to personal healing.
Finding Order
Spreading the book out, I found myself lost, just like when confronting disorder in life can feel overwhelming.
I never thought something that fitted in my pocket could carry so much: dozens of sheets of paper, with only the flyleaves and title still holding to the spine. Until that moment, I hadn’t paid attention to the anatomy of a book.
The pages intentionally left blank now carried relevance; they support the text block and bind it to the cover. Often we do not see the structures that support us until they are at the brink of collapse.
Fortunately, the pages were numbered. Here was another support structure: order. Even though sometimes invisible, it can guide us through chaos.
I observed the edge that connected to the spine: there were some crevasses probably used to fill with adhesive, a fast and convenient method to bind a book. Although looking at the state of the book, I would say that quick gains rarely endure, and more work had to be put in to regain them.
I took a seared knife and carefully deepened the back of the pages. I held the block with a pair of clips, and strung a loop in a zigzag, like a long infinity symbol. I used the same method to bind it to the spine, hoping that the deeper cuts and the supporting thread would hold it longer.
Then I carefully connected the flyleaves, one in front and one in the back. At this point, I felt like reconnecting beginnings and endings.
The only thing left was to wait. Patience itself is a vital part of the process; you need to let all that work sit, to take effect. This is the time when most retrospectives happen: skip it and you might lose something valuable.
Completion
When I finished, a sensation of completion came.
The book finally was in a better state than it ever was, no longer needing a bag to hold it. It could finally be read by someone else, to be of use. That made me feel better about myself: that things can be repaired, and that they can be better than they were before.
... if I don't write and reveal it now. It might never see the light.
... an exposition that works as a driven force to motivation.
September 2025
Afterwords
When I started this article, I was holding the book in my hands. I wanted to write about its content: the tale about facing the unknown, and start digging into its strange origins. But those are not my words, or my story, and I was not in the mood to go down another rabbit hole.
Also, I had something else there: the very same book seen from another perspective. This was the first book I ever restored, in fact, it was the book that made me learn bookbinding, and that’s very significant.
There is a me before and after this fact. I enjoy writing more: creating physical copies that I can use, that I can gift to others. There is also the sensation that time flows differently when doing a craft activity: it gives us a moment to meditate and let things go, a moment of intimacy between you and the object (book) you are creating.
So, I decided to write about it and put some reflections into it. I hope that with time, I get to explore more about bookbinding and all the good things that come with it.