Thursday, January 24, 2013

A confession...except I'm not really ashamed of it

So I was trying to decide which of my books to read next (I’m approximately 60% through the volumes on my shelves) and I came across a collection of works by Rudyard Kipling, most famous for The Jungle Book and Just So Stories. My mom had found this collection at a used book-sale (why I wasn’t with her at such a glorious event is beyond imagination) and like the good enabler she is bought it for me. 

Anyway I took it off the shelf to consider whether I should start reading it immediately or save it for a special reading occasion. Sometimes feeling the “heft” of a book…it’s weight, its solidity, its gilt binding….

But where was I? 

Oh yeah, then I sniffed it. To my delight, it smells like India. Not that I’ve ever personally been to India, but it sure smells like the restaurants and other global import stores. Like humidity and spices. So it smells like what my concept of India is.

So yes, I am a book-sniffer. Unashamedly so. When I pick up a book to buy, I usually make a quick pass of it under my nose.

It’s like testing a good cigar. 

Stop judging!


P.S.A.  Smoking cigars and anything else is hazardous to your health. 

On the other hand, the worst risk you run by sniffing books is maybe having a severe allergic reaction to mold or inhaling some kind of mutagen spore that will cause you to fluoresce at night. Which would be awesome and you know it.

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