turn the page
In my hall closet, there are two large boxes of books, published mostly during the 1800′s and early 1900′s. I got them through a very generous friend, who found no use for them himself. Although I’ve had them for a few months now, I haven’t yet made the time to go through them thoroughly to see what treasures may lie inside. Not literal treasures, mind you – the treasures of a story, of a journey, of a lifetime, or many.
I am a bibliophile. My favorite possessions are my books, and I’ve got quite a lot of them. In equal measure are ones I have read and ones I haven’t. I find both categories equally important. One of my goals in life is to have a proper library in my home – floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a ridiculously efficient cataloging system, and a comfy couch and chair to enjoy them in. Probably well-worn leather. Probably brown. With throw blankets and footstools. There will be soft yet bright lighting, and a cup of coffee or tea that always stays hot and never runs dry. Time will stand still, I’ll never need to sleep, my eyes will never tire or cross. I’ll just read, and read, and read.
Hey, it’s a fantasy, right?
One of my favorite smells is that of an old book. A few years ago I had the joy of travelling to Ireland with some friends. During our trip we visited the Trinity College Old Library in Dublin, which holds 200,000 of the school’s oldest books, as well as the Book of Kells. The whole experience was incredible, but what sticks with me the most was the smell. “Old Book Smell” has been described as dusty and paper-like, grassy and acidic, and everything in between. Apparently there are a plethora of different scents that go into making that one particular aroma. To me, it smells like comfort. It smells like every person that has ever smiled at you one the street, every shoulder you’ve ever cried on, every couch you’ve ever relaxed into after a long day. It smells like the feeling you get when a chapter of your life has ended, and you look back and know that everything was exactly as it should have been, good and bad.
It smells like a story, a journey, a lifetime.
The advent of the e-reader has me thinking a lot about books lately. I don’t own one myself, although I have played with them a time or two. Being the geek that I am, I think they’re pretty neat. There are a lot of properties of and possibilities for the e-reader that I think are invaluable. They are lightweight, which makes them far easier to hold for long periods than a heavy hardcover. There are large text and read-aloud functions for those with poor eyesight. Having all of your books in one device means not having to lug around many at once, which is especially great for those with back pain. Being able to download books online instead of having to go to the store means people who are home-bound or in rural areas have access to reading material they may not otherwise have gotten easily. I could write a whole post on why the e-reader is an amazing addition to our world.
However. What excites me the most about the boxes of books in my hall closet is not the books themselves, but what lies within them. The inscriptions from one friend to another, the memos and grocery lists used as bookmarks, the notes in the margins and underlines of the text. The one- and two-hundred years of history they have seen. The lives of those who read them and whose presence lingers in the pages.
The smell.
And as much as I think the e-reader is invaluable, and important, and incredible, the only smell it has is plastic. Yes, you can underline and highlight and make notes, but there will never be a handwritten love letter tucked quietly between the pages. You will never open an e-reader and have a person’s history fall out, or be able to tell how well it was loved by the creases in its spine. As much as the actual writing of a book is important to me, even more important is what you discover when you read between the lines. There may be books in those boxes that I will never actually read, but that I will keep because the people that had them before me are evident in their pages. There are pieces of us that stay alive inside of the things that we cherish, and when you take a deep breathe and inhale the aroma of an old book, you can feel those pieces come to life once more.
Pieces of a story, of a journey, of a lifetime, or many.
Posted by erin | 2 comments
