The smell of old books is one of the most evocative I know. I'd miss that. I'd miss second hand book shops with vertiginously steep staircases and mysterious damp patches, where the shelves stretch up into the darkness and the only way to reach them is to use the ricketty old step ladder with a sign saying 'not for customer use' which makes you ache to know what they're hiding up there. Shops where it is acceptable to browse for hours, purchase huge quantities and feel virtuous. And, at the till, over the owner's shoulder you can see rooms, inaccessible to the public, which contain as many books again or more.
I'd miss the way books look on a shelf, all different sizes and shapes and colours, each with a personality as individual as that of its author. I'd miss the implied order that a shelf imposes on a collection of books - the bible nestling amongst fiction, David Icke's ramblings on our Lizard overlords flanked by worthy histories. I'd miss stumbling across new authors and subjects just because they happened to be there on the shelf and caught my eye.
I'd miss the feel of a brand new book just before you crack it open for the first time. The way a familiar book opens at the page of my favourite poem like magic. I'd miss throwing books across the room in disgust and sheepishly retrieving them later. I'd miss their multifunctionality and indestructibility. I'd miss the way you can shove them into the bottom of a rucksack and recover them weeks later dishevelled but nonetheless pleased to see you like a kitten that has taken a brief and unexpected turn or two in the tumble drier. The way they look after you fall asleep and dunk them in the bath (books now, not kittens). The sound and feel of page on thumb as you flick through a book and the way that certain words and phrases leap out at you when you do so, so you feel compelled to go back and hunt them down. The texture of the page, the sheen of ink. The lovely living quality of paper. Glossy plates in ancient books.
I'd miss the comforting mass of the things, the satisfying, reassuring bulk. I'd miss potted author's biographies and back cover summaries. The brainless positivity of the Literary Review. I'd miss libraries, modern and old. I'd miss the worshipful hush and the echoing high ceilings. The endless shelves of books, proof of the boundless exuberance of human creativity. Each one a tremulous moon shot at immortality.
I'd miss trying to work out what it is the stranger on the train is reading, from snatched glimpses of the cover. The peculiar and guilty insights of browsing through a stranger's shelves while they put the kettle on, or fetch the wine. I'd miss the Hamburg commuter who each morning would retrieve a fat romance novel from a hiding place on the station platform, read just a single page then replace it, while waiting for his train.
I'd miss annotated copies of old books - a biro commentary written by a pedantic madman; every reference to eyes carefully underlined - that feeling that the words have been read before and cherished, understood and misunderstood in unusual ways. Names pencilled in at the front and scratched out, bringing together lives lived in different times and places, showing that it is knowledge and story telling that tie us together through time, a binding that keeps us from scattering like so many leaves in the wind.
I'd miss the way books look on a shelf, all different sizes and shapes and colours, each with a personality as individual as that of its author. I'd miss the implied order that a shelf imposes on a collection of books - the bible nestling amongst fiction, David Icke's ramblings on our Lizard overlords flanked by worthy histories. I'd miss stumbling across new authors and subjects just because they happened to be there on the shelf and caught my eye.
I'd miss the feel of a brand new book just before you crack it open for the first time. The way a familiar book opens at the page of my favourite poem like magic. I'd miss throwing books across the room in disgust and sheepishly retrieving them later. I'd miss their multifunctionality and indestructibility. I'd miss the way you can shove them into the bottom of a rucksack and recover them weeks later dishevelled but nonetheless pleased to see you like a kitten that has taken a brief and unexpected turn or two in the tumble drier. The way they look after you fall asleep and dunk them in the bath (books now, not kittens). The sound and feel of page on thumb as you flick through a book and the way that certain words and phrases leap out at you when you do so, so you feel compelled to go back and hunt them down. The texture of the page, the sheen of ink. The lovely living quality of paper. Glossy plates in ancient books.
I'd miss the comforting mass of the things, the satisfying, reassuring bulk. I'd miss potted author's biographies and back cover summaries. The brainless positivity of the Literary Review. I'd miss libraries, modern and old. I'd miss the worshipful hush and the echoing high ceilings. The endless shelves of books, proof of the boundless exuberance of human creativity. Each one a tremulous moon shot at immortality.
I'd miss trying to work out what it is the stranger on the train is reading, from snatched glimpses of the cover. The peculiar and guilty insights of browsing through a stranger's shelves while they put the kettle on, or fetch the wine. I'd miss the Hamburg commuter who each morning would retrieve a fat romance novel from a hiding place on the station platform, read just a single page then replace it, while waiting for his train.
I'd miss annotated copies of old books - a biro commentary written by a pedantic madman; every reference to eyes carefully underlined - that feeling that the words have been read before and cherished, understood and misunderstood in unusual ways. Names pencilled in at the front and scratched out, bringing together lives lived in different times and places, showing that it is knowledge and story telling that tie us together through time, a binding that keeps us from scattering like so many leaves in the wind.
But most of all I'd miss being curled up on the sofa with a book, a biscuit and a big cup of tea. Carelessly dropping crumbs into the binding, lost in another world, but somehow more alive in this one.
No comments:
Post a Comment