Today we have the written words of countless books available at the single touch of an icon. In many ways technology has broadened access to books and therefore knowledge by providing digital copies of vast numbers of texts. Personally however, this is not my preferred method of reading. I am a rather antiquated person. I love the feel of paper, the sound of a page crinkling as it turns, and the smells of books new and old. Technology can try to replicate the sound but the feel and scent of physical books are so unique and special they cannot be artificially mimicked. However for as much as I adore the sound and feel that comes from reading a bound book, it is the smell that stirs my soul the most.
When I crack open a new book the spine usually resists but eventually I subdue it, forcing it to remain open. The pages of a new book have a fresh almost youthful smell. Brightness and excitement burble forth like a fresh spring from the untouched paper. A new leather bound book smells like a new pair of boots or freshly made leather jacket. All wrapped in a package that screams for me to give it life. It cries for drink stains, chocolate thumb prints, dogeared corners, ink spotted scribbled notes, and most uniquely the oils from my skin that seep into each cover and page. An oil that departs a scent all my own. Together these begin to make it show signs of love in my mind. A loved book is well worn not kept looking pretty on a shelf. It is not a decoration but a dear friend that accompanies you through many journeys of your life.
In contrast to a new book, a used book smells almost sacred. Entering a used book store or old library is like standing in a place vibrating with ancient power, a holy place of knowledge. They say old books have a smell of decay but I have never perceived that to be the case. Each book emanates a deep and rich musky aroma. It overwhelms the mind. It draws you in as a siren does a weary sailor. Upon opening each tome you can often feel the love and see the character that the previous owner embedded within it. The smell of lives lived and lives passed. Some carry spicy scents of forgotten kitchens, the bustling hearts of homes. Some carry earthy tobacco from the pipes of old men who sat in lavish studies. Then some books occasionally have whiffs of gentle yet aged perfumes, conjuring images of delicate ladies sitting in parlors sipping tea. Some of the pages have stains of coffee, finger prints, ink stains, and even tears, while not necessarily scents all of these are little notes added to the life the book has lived. Not all old books are this way of course but amongst the ones I have fallen in love with these are dearest to my heart.
In my life I have been incredibly blessed to have the opportunity to handle older books. Books that were published before even my great grandparents were born. In the grand scheme of aged texts these are of course not particularly old but I still considered them special. Oh how I dream of holding texts made of parchment and velum. To gaze upon pages that are so old they have become practically translucent. I can only imagine the richness that would envelop me in simply opening them. The thought of being granted permission to read illuminated manuscripts, old Church records, and all manner of examples of the written word from ages passed, fills me with a longing I can hardly explain. I can only say it is almost a longing to return to a home I never knew, yet one I know is a place where I belong.