Steppenwolf

An old and generous book can be as strong as a shot of whiskey, but as smooth as the clearest wine; as intoxicating as an unexpected kiss. In my room I have a rocking chair. It's nothing noticeable - not an antique or anything; not the chair of an aged gentleman or a widowed grandmother. It is more like a child's chair. The back comes not to my neck, and its design is simple, bordering on the uncomfortable if used for too long. But I sit in this chair and read on occasion. I play some nocturne's of Chopin to drown out the background noise; but more in order to set a soft, gentle, and unobtrusive tone in the room. And then after I have sat down and I've got the music playing behind me, I read a bit of Hermann Hesse. Steppenwolf. But before I get two pages in for tonight's reading I catch the smell of something that does not smell like Africa at all.

No, this smell is something of home, something that I am fond of, something that puts me right back at home. It is the smell of this old book. It is hard to describe. It is not living, the book, so it can't be the smell of something that has died. And indeed, the smell of something that has died has a negative connotation to it anyhow. Instead, as with a wine or a memory, this smell is something that gets better with age. It is not musty, it is not ragged or derelict. It is unique, and the moment you smell it you know exactly what it is. Those are old pages! They are not plastic, they are not coated. These pages are simply wood pulp, dye, and ink. Nothing more. Nothing fancy. But I like this smell. I absolutely love this smell. I like what it makes me think of. It is simple, and it reminds of a place that is comfortable, a place that is familiar; a place I call home.