This book sniffing is not weird to you fellow book lovers. It is darn near a cliché, in fact. But is it really the smell of the paper that makes me close my eyes and sigh into the pages? This is hardly scientific, but my sigh-worthy book scent is crisp, clean, yet still somehow warm. Not the least bit musty or sour. It tends to be from heavy paper with a buttery parchment color. That is about as close as I can come to explaining it. But I sure do know it when my nose encounters it.
That smell. The smell of the familiar that links me back to my earliest days at the small public library in our tiny village. The days of cards, stamps, and one marvelously stereotypical bespectacled librarian (in my case) controlling it all from the desk by the door.
I used to love to read the date stamps on the pocket in the back of each book . . . remember those? They mapped the journey of a book. I wanted to see how often or how long ago someone had checked out the very same book I was now reading. Sometimes they added that little paper because they needed more space to stamp. And you had to return to the library with the physical book in hand to renew it and receive another stamp in the back.
That smell. The smell of the unfamiliar, too. The possibilities, the characters, places, and authors I was becoming acquainted with for the very first time. Thrilling and enchanting in all their glorious promise. Old friends. New friends.
You understand. You remember that feeling. You know that I can remember each age and stage by whom I was reading at that time, because you can do the same thing. Our daughter picked up a book today and I sighed happily in recognition. "Oh, yes . . . that was second grade. Another made me chuckle at my "turn of the century phase " when I wanted high-waist dresses and huge bows in my hair.
You understand. You remember. You know.
Every time I venture into a library I think "why have I stayed away so long?"
Have you sniffed a book lately? You deserve it.
That smell. The smell of the familiar that links me back to my earliest days at the small public library in our tiny village. The days of cards, stamps, and one marvelously stereotypical bespectacled librarian (in my case) controlling it all from the desk by the door.
I used to love to read the date stamps on the pocket in the back of each book . . . remember those? They mapped the journey of a book. I wanted to see how often or how long ago someone had checked out the very same book I was now reading. Sometimes they added that little paper because they needed more space to stamp. And you had to return to the library with the physical book in hand to renew it and receive another stamp in the back.
That smell. The smell of the unfamiliar, too. The possibilities, the characters, places, and authors I was becoming acquainted with for the very first time. Thrilling and enchanting in all their glorious promise. Old friends. New friends.
You understand. You remember that feeling. You know that I can remember each age and stage by whom I was reading at that time, because you can do the same thing. Our daughter picked up a book today and I sighed happily in recognition. "Oh, yes . . . that was second grade. Another made me chuckle at my "turn of the century phase " when I wanted high-waist dresses and huge bows in my hair.
You understand. You remember. You know.
Every time I venture into a library I think "why have I stayed away so long?"
Have you sniffed a book lately? You deserve it.
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