The earliest kind of ‘paper’ was made by the Ancient Egyptians, by cutting strips of the papyrus plant. They soaked the strips in water, set them down in a grid pattern, and pressed them together until they created a flat writing surface. Papyrus grew plentifully along the River Nile, which made it an obvious choice, but the material has its drawbacks – it has ridges in it from the intact plant fibres, and over time the strips become brittle and start to crack apart. Many documents and religious texts that were written on papyrus still survive, preserved by dry desert conditions, but they are usually broken into tiny fragments.

Paper as we know it started out in China, with the earliest surviving piece dating from around 179 BCE. The process was refined by Ts’ai Lun, an imperial official, in 105 CE, and his innovation gradually spread across Asia and the Middle East. The new paper was made from a mix of broken-down plant fibres and old rags, and was more flexible and durable than papyrus. The technology was brought into Italy by merchants, and with a few modifications, it gradually spread across Europe.

Initially, people were sceptical. This new kind of ‘parchment’ was more fragile, it tore easily, and it didn’t behave properly with ink. In 1145, King Roger II of Sicily decreed that all paper charters made before his reign should be copied out again on parchment, and the paper copies should be destroyed. But the new technology had its advantages: it was cheaper than using animal skins, and could be bulk-produced, and as literacy increased it became popular for note-taking, letter-writing, and business minutes. ‘Paperwork’ had been born.

The booming demand for paper brought a new difficulty: a shortage of materials. European paper was made using fibres of linen and flax. Old rope was a good source for this, and many paper mills sprang up near ports. But the finest paper required the finest fibres, which were sourced from the rag trade in discarded clothes. The very softest fibres were found in linen underwear. By the 1600s in France, demand for reading material had so far outstripped the availability of rags that the paper industry was in crisis, and multiple laws were passed to try to regulate the trade in old underwear, to save the paper mills.

In the 1700s, there were many brief fashions for using different bases for paper. Some, like wood, would be familiar to us, others less so: esparto grass, palm leaves, and seaweed all had their moments of dubious papermaking glory. Eventually, various advances in chemical technology allowed wood to be pulped and then treated to make paper that was brighter, stronger, and more durable. Although it has taken a lot of cutting-edge science to get to the paper we know today, the basic principles behind it would still be familiar to the Ancient Egyptians, almost five thousand years later. Here’s to the next five thousand.

Before printing, if you wanted a book, you had to copy it out yourself. The first European centres of book production were large monasteries, where monks or nuns would work in the ‘scriptorium’ to write and copy out texts. The Rule of Saint Benedict stipulated that monks should read daily, and even though the focus was more on close analysis of a few devotional texts, the monks still needed a way to get hold of new reading material. Although they mostly focused on copying religious texts such as the Bible or the writings of the early Church Fathers, many were also happy to copy pre-Christian texts, and the Church therefore played a large part in preserving Ancient Greek and Roman culture, and keeping it in fashion for studying.

With time and resources at their disposal, the monasteries became specialist book suppliers to the outside world. It is difficult to reconstruct exactly how a scriptorium would have worked, but it is clear that there was (usually) a division of labour. Specialist workshops supplied sheets of parchment made from animal skins, often calf, which were scraped clean and stretched out to write on. A monk would then smooth the parchment further and prepare the surface, before a different monk ruled lines and copied out the text. Another monk would then ‘illuminate’ the grander manuscripts, by painting borders, elaborate initials, and illustrations, which sometimes have very little to do with the subject matter of the book. The finest books were often decorated with gold leaf.

Eventually, secular scriptoria arose, where professional copyists and artists worked on commissions for wealthy patrons. The growth of universities in Europe increased demand for the works on the syllabus, and there was a thriving industry in copying out textbooks. But even after the rise of printing in the 1400s, handwritten and hand-decorated books did not entirely fall out of fashion. Bespoke adornment was still a way to set your book above your neighbour’s copy, and some wealthy patrons continued to employ artists to hand-illuminate their printed texts. In religious settings, hand-copying continued to thrive, as an act of devotion and reflection rather than a commercial enterprise.

Humphry Repton, Observations on the theory and practice of landscape gardening, 1805

Repton was a pioneering landscape gardener, the successor of ‘Capability’ Brown at Hampton Court. Here he markets his work by showcasing the latest fashions in garden design. This lavish book contains unusual double illustrations – readers can lift the flaps to compare ‘before’ and ‘after’ scenes.

Book of common prayer, 1772

Rather than a more traditional leather binding, which were popular either ‘blind-stamped’ or decorated with gold leaf, this book is bound in painted vellum. James Edwards of Halifax (1757–1816) patented an innovative method for this, which involved painting on the back of the translucent membrane, so that when it was bound the right way, the painting would be safe from damage. Sadly, the fashion wasn’t so enduring.

Book of hours (French), 1558

This volume, possibly bound in Lyon, emulates the favourite bookbinding style of Jean Grolier (c.1489–1565), the Treasurer-General of France, who popularised the ‘entrelac’ (interlaced) fashion. It has also been decorated by ‘gauffering’ the gilded edges – using heated pointed tools to create dotted patterns.

Henry Kirke White, The life and remains of Henry Kirke White, 1843

Another fashion in bookbinding was to paint watercolour scenes along the edges of the pages. These were often completely hidden until the pages were fanned out, which made them a popular place to hide information about ownership of the book (or, occasionally, erotic scenes). This book has a very rare double fore-edge painting – with the pages fanned one way it depicts Nottingham, the other way, St John’s.

Books are inherently political. But Thomas Baker (1656-1740), a scholar and conservative Anglican clergyman, made sure that anyone who picked up a volume in his library would know exactly what his grievances were.

Baker began studying at St John’s when he was seventeen, and stayed here almost his entire life. He was elected a fellow, and later ordained as a priest. He had made the required oath of allegiance to King James II, a Catholic, but when James was deposed by the supporters of his Anglican daughter Mary II, Baker was asked to swear loyalty to the new regime. He refused. Although he didn’t support James at all, he still felt that his first oath was sacred.

With his Church career in ruins, Baker returned to St John’s, where he wrote Reflections upon Learning. He argued that human knowledge was flawed, and that people should instead humbly trust in divine revelation. Although a huge hit with the public, it didn’t go down well with scientists. Unpopular again, Baker turned to studying the past, and collecting books and manuscripts. It went very well until 1717, when he was again asked to swear his loyalty to the crown and again, he refused.

This time he was removed from his fellowship. He was devastated. Nevertheless, he stayed on as a guest of the college, and left so many books to the library when he died that the bookcases had to be extended to make room. But he wrote his name in all of them as ‘Socius Ejectus’ – ‘the thrown-out fellow’ – so that nobody would ever forget what his college had done to him. A bold and enduring statement from a man who held stubbornly to his moral principles against the tides of fashion.

Edmund Curll (c.1675-1747) was a publisher and bookseller, and one of the most notorious figures on the early printing scene. He was a shameless opportunist, expertly manipulating the public debate so that his books were always on trend. In 1712, when Jane Wenham was on trial for witchcraft, Curll teamed up with two other small publishers to write and sell pamphlets arguing both sides of the case.

Curll made sure that he sold something for everyone, and apparently specialised in no particular subject, focusing on whatever would make money. The titles he sold ranged from Caesar’s Commentaries and The Devout Christian’s Companion, to the rather less high-minded The Way of a Man with a Maid, and several dubious medical works claiming to cure sexually transmitted diseases. He became so associated with indecent publications that a new word was coined to describe them: ‘Curlicisms’.

Curll was most famous for his literary feuds. He was unscrupulous about stealing authors’ works and publishing them without permission. He concocted fake new material, and produced unauthorized (and often rude) hack biographies after famous people had died. During Curll’s colourful career he made enemies of Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, John Gay, and many others, and was demonised in the press, pranked with emetics, beaten up by schoolboys, and jailed four times.

But he regarded all publicity as good publicity. Once when forced to write a public apology, he managed to turn even that into an advertisement for his new stock. Although an unsavoury character, Curll was also a canny businessman, who used innovative methods to command the fashions of the book market and shape public taste.