Occasionally someone searching through old archives of The Vatican Library or The British Museum will stumble upon a manuscript or object d’art that was assumed to have been lost over time. These discoveries are widely celebrated as missing puzzle pieces that provide a greater understanding of history.
Well, the old book we came across as we were sorting through one of the many collections of stuff we have stored away around our house is maybe not such a dramatic find, but it was exciting. For me, anyway.
The book is “Onions Without Tears” by Jean Bothwell. It was published in 1950 which makes it not really ancient, but, still, it is older than either of us. It is pleasant to hold in my hands. The hardcover is in good shape; the corners are not bent; the pages aren’t dog-eared, and someone took the time to fold and tuck the original paper dust jacket inside. We probably came by it during one of the many trips we made hauling away the books and other objects d’life that Becky’s mom had accumulated over the years.
I love looking through old books even if their subjects are of little interest to me. I like the idea that I am holding a piece of history. I am happily aware that this bound-together collection of papers has outlived its maker, its original owner and someday might go on after I am gone. I wonder if people in the future will feel the same way about e-books. And I wonder if they will ever experience that particular “old book smell.”
Recently I learned a new word, “Petrichor,” and I wrote it down. It means “The smell of earth after it rains especially after a dry spell.” It comes from the Greek “petr(o)” for “rock” and “ichor” which is the fluid the ancient Greek gods had in their veins instead of blood.
I know that after rain smell. What gardener or person who spends their time outside doesn’t? What a useful and specific word, I thought. I wondered if there might be a similar word for the smell of old books. Turns out, there isn’t. Oh, a few word people have made suggestions and coined possibilities but nothing is definite.
The artist and writer John Koenig has an online creation called ‘The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows” which contains new words for “emotions that do not have a descriptive term.” From the Latin word vellum meaning “fine writing paper” (made originally from the skin of a calf) and ichor he invented “Vellichor.” From his Dictionary definition: “The strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago … littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.”
Scientists tell us old books emit volatile organic compounds (VOCs) which come from paper slowly decomposing over time. These chemical compounds mix in the air to form distinct scents. Several attempts have been made to characterize and categorize the various old book smells. An old book smell is often described as “musty,” but in a research setting, people chose other words including ‘smokey” or “woody.” “Chocolate” and “coffee” are usually high on the word list. This makes sense, the researchers point out because coffee and cocoa contain “identical” compounds to those of decaying paper. Maybe that’s why I enjoy a cup of coffee when I am reading a book.
Those who know such things tell us our sense of smell is very close to the memory center of the human brain and we often associate memories with certain smells. I remember the first day of school, maybe my third or fourth-grade year, walking into the decades-old brick elementary building. Among the noises and excitement, I sniffed something in the air. It was the smell of old-school books.
I remember it still.
Norman Knight, a retired Clark-Pleasant Middle School teacher, writes this weekly column for the Daily Journal. Send comments to [email protected].
