Fantastic Metropolis

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Forrest Aguirre

Besides being a book fondler (see previous response), I’m a book-sniffer. There is a great deal of history in the old dust and mold spores between the pages of a book. The scent of the University of Wisconsin’s library basement, for example, reeks with Africana and Victoriana. Books written for and bound by the German colonial government offices in East Africa have a distinctive smell—not unpleasant—of saltwater seeping through sun-dried brick buildings, with a hint of mangrove. I’ve wondered, while sniffing these texts, how many tsetse flies have shat upon their yellowed pages. Perhaps they hold latent trypanosomes that will one day awaken and send me to the soft recesses of sleeping sickness. Nevertheless, I can’t help myself, I am a book sniffer.

Hawk Alfredson & Mia Hanson

Mia says she always cleans the covers of used books just before she begins reading them. (She’s a little weird.)

Neal Asher

I read everything except the fiction itself, then place the book on one of the foot-high stacks on my bedside table. When I read, it is dependent not on order, but on my expectations.

Dale Bailey

I’m helpless not to read introductions, forwards, story notes—any editorial matter at all—immediately.

R. M. Berry

New books frighten me. I put them away on a shelf very rapidly, somewhere that I can forget about them completely but find them later. I like to find them years later, completely astonished that I own them. Usually at that point I can read them.

Richard Bleiler

Ahem. These are almost embarrassingly personal. Used: I start by smelling the book, yes, oh yes. Is there an aroma of perfume or tobacco or alcohol or cat urine or something? I continue by looking at the volume as a whole, and if it is marked or injured in any way I speculate about the cause of the injury. Was that scorch from a cigarette or a fireplace? Were those paint speckles from when the previous owner used a roller to paint the room but didn’t cover the titles? I look at pages for ownership marks or inscriptions or something that shows that the book was in other hands prior to mine. I look at the title page, getting some sense for the design and layout, then look at the plates, if the book has any. I enjoy the soft feel of the edges of used books: they aren’t dog-eared, but they aren’t so sharp that you can get paper cuts. I like running my fingers around the text block. Sometimes I open at random and read a sentence or two before starting at the beginning. New. I don’t have so many rituals, but I do enjoy the feel of the crisp paper, the way the spine is tight across the signatures.

Cuyler Brooks

I certainly notice if a book has an unusual odor. If it’s the odor of mildew, I treat it for that! Certain books on coated paper seem to have a nauseous odor. Some British books—most notably Eddison’s The Menzentian Gate—have a curious smoky odor. Old rag papers have a nice feel, and cloth bindings feel a lot better than leather or the modern plasticized paper. I am very nearsighted and often read in bed with my glasses off, so that I notice fibers or spots in the paper and details of font design.

Jay Caselberg

I smell books. I am more inclined to stroke them, though. Hold them in one hand and stroke the cover with the other like a treasured pet.

Jonathan Carroll

My father taught me how to “open” a book properly so that it would live longer—open it a few pages on either side and fold them down carefully and slowly, then do that working your way to the middle. Whether this works or not, it is a nice way to shake hands with a new book.

Michael Chabon

If they are old and have retained their dust jackets, I wrap them in a mylar sleeve.

Michael Cisco

I have sniffed books in my time, but not as part of a fixed protocol of book-buying (more like a pastime). When I buy books and bring them home, I set them aside in piles, depending on the kind of reading they represent (research, pleasure, subway). When I’ve read them, they all go onto a shelving pile. Once the shelving pile is a foot or two high, I alphabetize the books, measure the height of the pile, displace an equivalent amount of already-shelved books to make room for the new ones (my shelves are deep enough for double-stacking: the back rows are all filled, and now the fronts are filling up), then insert the new books in the proper places. In this way, I am able to find any book fairly swiftly. I derive from this operation, also, a profound sense of well-being. I don’t merely possess my books; they form a precisely-ordered system over which I preside. Looking at the books on my shelves, I enjoy their order.