The smell of books (and why I always follow my nose)

Ever since I can recall, the notion of a musty old attic filled with musty old books that no one read or wanted anymore has been my ideal of the best place to hide out from the world. I was a bookworm as a kid – I spent so many hours curled up with a book I'm surprised my spine didn't curve. Of course, reading curled up on my bed or a living room armchair left me vulnerable to interruption: my mother's call to do my homework, practice the piano, or my sister's imperious suggestions that I pick up my dirty clothes or comb my hair - all were assailants upon my peace.

A visit to my uncle's farm house in the countryside of southern Missouri one summer made a fantasy come true: just off the kitchen was a narrow door with a wobbly glass handle. "Oh, that leads to the attic," was my aunt's disinterested reply to my query. "Nothing up there now, but old furniture and a buncha books." She did not react to the sudden bursting rendition of the Alleluia Chorus that filled her sunny, gingham-checked kitchen, so I guessed she didn't hear it. But it was ringing in my ears as I opened the creaking, whitewashed door and peered up the dim stairway. At the top of the stairway was a bookcase filled, as she had promised, with dusty books. I climbed the narrow stairs and entered my new domain with the soft footsteps of reverence. For hours I was enchanted with both my discovery and the realization that my heretofore vague notions of the tranquility of book-filled attics were now suddenly and irrevocably replaced by the real thing. A fantasy come to life, with the turn of a rickety doorknob! There were stacks of cast-off paperbacks and faded comic books mixed in with gilt-edged volumes of poetry and history, some boasting print dates from the 1940's. There was an odd book of 12th century torture techniques, complete with carefully wrought etchings, printed in a strange typeset with page borders 2 inches wide, browning with age.

It was here, watching with solemn pleasure as kicked-up dust swirled in the sunlight that filtered in from a high, dirty window, that I first breathed in that incomparable smell of aged books. In a lesser location, the incessant buzz from the dirt devils that were crawling busily in and out of a bent air vent overhead would have sent me scurrying; here, they were merely my tiny sentries, guaranteed to frighten off unworthy invaders – my cousins. No one bothered me in my hot, airless kingdom. It was Nirvana!

Back in those days, I could read hour after hour without ill effects. My, but things do change. Since becoming a regular working stiff, coming home in the evenings and picking up a book after dinner gradually turned into little more than a sure-fire fast track to being asleep by 8 PM. I've grown progressively more jealous of my time away from work; demanding more from those waking hours – so, eventually, and almost without my noticing, the act of reading for pleasure simply became something to avoid.

But a bookworm never changes her spots (yeah, I typed that out and I'm sticking to it) – so there came a period of compromise – I discovered I could skim through what I loosely thought of as "lighter fare" without falling asleep. For a time, I read nothing so intricate that I couldn't have the ending pegged before I was halfway through. It was like having a steady diet of fast food: I knew I wasn't starving, but couldn't remember the last time I'd had a meal that had really left me with the sense of well-being that comes only from having been well sated. Reading a wide assortment of books on alternative photographic techniques was informative entertainment - but nothing can beat having a book that lights a spark, as well as amuse and delight you. So, I vowed to return to the old-fashioned pleasure of reading. Stumbling across the like-minded folks over at Library Thing has been all I needed as a final push.

They recently gave me the welcome occasion to go on a book hunt, having come up with another "group read" suggestion. It fell on me to find a copy of Sinclair Lewis' Elmer Gantry. No luck at the usual brick-and-mortar booksellers; so, it was off to search on Amazon. I found a used copy for six bucks, and paid slightly more than that to get express delivery. Nothing could have prepared me for what I received: a 1960 Dell paperback edition, complete with yellowed edges and the undeniable smell of my former book-laden lair. A highly pixelated B&W image of Burt Lancaster clutching a Bible adorns the front cover, under the words: "The book that shook the nation!" A nugget from my former trove had been mailed to me!

It's old news that our memories seem hotwired to our sense of smell. The fact that I am thoroughly enjoying this old chestnut is secondary to my gratitude at having had the rush of memories of my wondrous attic hideaway flooding my brain. By its release date, its slightly tattered appearance and, especially, by its distinctive browning-page smell - the book could have come from there.

I am finding some strange comfort now, amusing myself by pretending that it did.