I know the most important part of a book are the words printed within, but there’s something about the sensory experience of the scent and feel of pebbly bookleather, the dry, smooth cream of gently aging pages and the sudden discovery of notes scribbled in the margins that liquefy me. Even having to treat tattered pages like thin sheets of glass is a sensory experience I’d never want to give up.
New books are like that too. The first creak of a virgin spine, the aggressive perfume of freshly bleached and dyed paper and new ink, unmolested canvas covers and un-drubbed, razor sharp page corners.
Ahhhhhhhhh.
