Ode to Book Sniffing
Ever since the summer started, I have been suffering from a spate of migraines, making it nearly impossible for me to concentrate on anything for very long and plunging our apartment into a continual state of semi-gloom. So I resorted to my light-reading standby--Harry Potter.
Rest assured, I can hear your snickers from here, but by this point, I am impervious to your mockery. Yes, I have read the books more times than I can count; yes, I have three different complete sets of Harry Potter books (paperbacks, hardcovers, and the British editions); and yes, I went to Chicago (twice) to see the Harry Potter exhibit when it was traveling. I love Harry Potter. I've come to terms with it. So should you.
But my love of Harry Potter is not my real confession here. My confession is this: as much as I love the story, there is one thing about the books I love more: the smell. Two nights ago, I was curled up on my couch with the third book when I heard my husband snickering from the kitchen . When I asked him what was so funny, he informed me he was amused to see me sniffing my book. I hadn't realized I had been doing it. More importantly, I hadn't realized he was in the kitchen to see me doing it.
I am not, however, ashamed of unconsciously and surreptitiously sniffing my books. My British editions of the Harry Potter books smell very distinct and they are by far the best smelling books I own. As I said to my husband that same night (after forcing him to smell my book and admit that it was pleasantly aromatic) I wish I could smell like that. I admit, I smell my books when I buy them. Library books are particularly enchanting--though I admit to being a bit leery of getting my nose too close to the pages, aware as I am of the plethora of hands in which they have been. Library books--older and bound better than regular books--give off a particularly sinful smell of dusty paper and slowly cracking glue. And I have no qualms about returning a book to the shelf if it "smells wrong."
Perhaps only other bibliophiles can understand this particular obsession of mine. In this age where digital media are all the rage, so much of the joy of physical reading is ebbing away. I understand the lure of things like Kindles and Nooks; as my husband and I plan our second honeymoon to Europe, I find myself thinking more and more about the practical nature of these devices. But I cannot deny that for me, at least, reading is not mental. It is not merely the stories that I love. It's the feel of the book in my hands. The forms and shapes of the various fonts on the paper. The sound of the paper. And of course, the smell.
For me, books engage all the senses (okay... I admit, I am yet to eat or taste a book, but the sentiment remains the same). The pleasure comes from finding the book that feels right. That is why I am so picky about the books I buy; the paper must feel right, the pages must feel right along the open end (oh how I loathe the trend toward unfinished ends). The covers flop just precisely right as it falls open. The font needs to look right on the page (I am particularly fond of certain fonts' question marks). And certainly, the right smell is positively intoxicating.
I know, despite those of you scoffing out there, that I am not alone in my love of book-sniffing. I have had many students--usually those who are also avid readers--remark on which books "smell" the best. And I've caught more than one of my honors students sniffing the spine on the day I pass out copies of To Kill a Mockingbird or Lord of the Flies. I am not alone. Perhaps we should start a club.
A recent discussion within my department has centered around how to turn our students into life-long readers. There is a wealth information out there and numerous studies, all with their own suggestions. But as I smell my copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix I realize this is really what I want to impart on my students--the glory and pure, unadulterated, joy that can come with reading. The sensual physical pleasure of simply losing yourself in the texture, sound, and smell of words. I want them to understand that reading can be so much more than just the stories; it can be truly transcendent.
Perhaps when I hand out the copies of To Kill and Mockingbird and The Great Gatsby this fall, I'll force all 200 of my students to take a deep whiff. It'll amuse me, at the very least. And just maybe I'll manage to create one more life-long book-sniffer.
Rest assured, I can hear your snickers from here, but by this point, I am impervious to your mockery. Yes, I have read the books more times than I can count; yes, I have three different complete sets of Harry Potter books (paperbacks, hardcovers, and the British editions); and yes, I went to Chicago (twice) to see the Harry Potter exhibit when it was traveling. I love Harry Potter. I've come to terms with it. So should you.
But my love of Harry Potter is not my real confession here. My confession is this: as much as I love the story, there is one thing about the books I love more: the smell. Two nights ago, I was curled up on my couch with the third book when I heard my husband snickering from the kitchen . When I asked him what was so funny, he informed me he was amused to see me sniffing my book. I hadn't realized I had been doing it. More importantly, I hadn't realized he was in the kitchen to see me doing it.
I am not, however, ashamed of unconsciously and surreptitiously sniffing my books. My British editions of the Harry Potter books smell very distinct and they are by far the best smelling books I own. As I said to my husband that same night (after forcing him to smell my book and admit that it was pleasantly aromatic) I wish I could smell like that. I admit, I smell my books when I buy them. Library books are particularly enchanting--though I admit to being a bit leery of getting my nose too close to the pages, aware as I am of the plethora of hands in which they have been. Library books--older and bound better than regular books--give off a particularly sinful smell of dusty paper and slowly cracking glue. And I have no qualms about returning a book to the shelf if it "smells wrong."
Perhaps only other bibliophiles can understand this particular obsession of mine. In this age where digital media are all the rage, so much of the joy of physical reading is ebbing away. I understand the lure of things like Kindles and Nooks; as my husband and I plan our second honeymoon to Europe, I find myself thinking more and more about the practical nature of these devices. But I cannot deny that for me, at least, reading is not mental. It is not merely the stories that I love. It's the feel of the book in my hands. The forms and shapes of the various fonts on the paper. The sound of the paper. And of course, the smell.
For me, books engage all the senses (okay... I admit, I am yet to eat or taste a book, but the sentiment remains the same). The pleasure comes from finding the book that feels right. That is why I am so picky about the books I buy; the paper must feel right, the pages must feel right along the open end (oh how I loathe the trend toward unfinished ends). The covers flop just precisely right as it falls open. The font needs to look right on the page (I am particularly fond of certain fonts' question marks). And certainly, the right smell is positively intoxicating.
I know, despite those of you scoffing out there, that I am not alone in my love of book-sniffing. I have had many students--usually those who are also avid readers--remark on which books "smell" the best. And I've caught more than one of my honors students sniffing the spine on the day I pass out copies of To Kill a Mockingbird or Lord of the Flies. I am not alone. Perhaps we should start a club.
A recent discussion within my department has centered around how to turn our students into life-long readers. There is a wealth information out there and numerous studies, all with their own suggestions. But as I smell my copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix I realize this is really what I want to impart on my students--the glory and pure, unadulterated, joy that can come with reading. The sensual physical pleasure of simply losing yourself in the texture, sound, and smell of words. I want them to understand that reading can be so much more than just the stories; it can be truly transcendent.
Perhaps when I hand out the copies of To Kill and Mockingbird and The Great Gatsby this fall, I'll force all 200 of my students to take a deep whiff. It'll amuse me, at the very least. And just maybe I'll manage to create one more life-long book-sniffer.
Comments