How to Smell Books - a Librantiquarian's Guide to Stifling Progress

Ask me a month ago what I thought of the state of e-literature, and I would’ve scoffed with the best of them. “Piddle and gumdrops!” I’d say, “what’s going to replace a good, solid book? A Koobloo? An iPad? By humpty dumpty, I should dare say NOT!”

It just so happens that I was of the opinion of every librarian and antiquarian luddite, to wit, that an iPad functioned something like a colourful etch-a-sketch, that one had to fiddle and calculate one’s way through innumerable settings, nobs, and doo-dads before a rough equivalence of the Latin alphabet would slowly materialize out of the grainy background like a mirage in the Nafud desert, and that people who claimed to READ books on something so primitive were either confused about what a book was, or what reading was, or what one did with them other than flip the pages.

And then I got one.

I now realize that all books ought to be burned for fuel without a hint of hesitation. However, I am a soft-hearted old codger. Despite the wonders of the new technological environment, I am convinced that there is one domain in which it still cannot compete, one which librantiquarians have seized on with fervor as the saving grace of their profession, and one which I just so happen to be an expert in.

Allow me to present you then with an beginner’s catalogue to sniffing books. Since that is clearly all that they are good-for nowadays:

Penguin Classic, old editions (black with white text): A bit gluey on first whiff, but a mellow, almost citrous after-sniff makes for an overall smooth inhale. A sign of great things to come.

Everyman Editions, Early 20^th Century (shitty bindings, annoyingly small text): Though these particular editions read as though a set of Casio instructions had been reverse-engineered to encompass all of western culture, the lemon-gluey purity of the smell, combined with the range of texts which make up the series, make them very much worth owning, so long as you never attempt to read or open them. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more affordable way to smell Walter Savage Landor’s Imaginary Conversations.

Beijing Foreign Language Press, Old Illustrated Classics (Journey to the West, Outlaws of the Marsh, the Scholars etc): A mix of green-tea leaf, banana, and glue, with a lemony tickle that reminds me of the summer evenings of my adolescence. There is certainly something toxic in the ink which, if properly humid, contributes to a state of fatalistic euphoria so conducive to the overall atmosphere of brutally violent concision and entertaining psycho-dementia that makes up Chinese Classic narrative. An essential summer sniff.

Almost all octavos from the late 19^th century purchased exclusively at University book sales: The native smell of the volume is almost always overrun by that of either pipe tobacco, coffee, or Scotch, usually in that order. Glue had yet to be invented, or rather was still being used as a Scottish breakfast condiment, and so contributes very little to the bouquet, unless through unnecessary modifications i.e. library cards at the back etc. A squeeze of lemon does wonders here.

Scholastic Book Orders, ca. 1993-1998: A cheery blend of watermelon jolly-rancher, glue, newspaper ink, and earth-worms. If you’re going to try to smell this one, please ensure that you have been properly inoculated against cooties (double times infinity at the very least!).

New Directions, largely 20^th century modernists: For such an intimidating and avant-garde series, smell remarkably like the above mentioned scholastic book-orders. Minus earth-worms, and with an additional inclinations towards totalitarianism and fine cheese.

Penguin Classic, Middle Editions (coloured spine-tops, smog yellow borders): The essential stand-by “great snort” of all book-smelling. Subtle, all-encompassing, and with the glue currently at its prime level of decay (Anno Domini June 2012), the odour of these mastersniffs make reading the things from cover to cover a worthwhile experience. There is much debate on the peak whiff-zone, whether it be nearer the cover, central spine, epilogues etc. and that this is all contingent on the size of the volume. With all due respect to my esteemed colleagues in the field I would like to hazard my own revolutionary opinion, that is, that the prime sniff is to be had at the unorthodox position of the top of the body pages, somewhere equidistant between spine and falling-off point. The smellista who trusts me on this shall not be disappointed, though he or she may find the text a little screwy to discern. But aren’t we all?

Books purchased at the Buchhandlung on Kurze Straße  in Göttingen, Germany: Smell like a lake of dreams.

 vs.

GF Flammarion, texte intégral (white or off-yellow depending on age): Like all things French and lemony, risky purchase. Newly printed, they smell not unlike a stroll through a Best Buy Blowout Sale. IF, however, the proper mellowing has occurred, usually, but not always, indicated by a severe YELLOWING of the cover, you may get a great surge of snuff, whig-powder, chocolat, and the guillotine. An interesting combination, especially with a little lemon on the side.

Penguin Classic, New Editions (black everything, red or white text): A cheaply printed Ottawa-valley telephone book in all but mere content. Alternatively, smells like the decay of the College of Humanities, and consequently, of man.

Of course there are many more. But this should keep you from burning the basics.