I don't know about you, but there is something about opening a
freshly printed magazine, its pages still loosely stuck together, that gives me
a real sense of satisfaction. The smell of the ink, the uncreased pages and the
glossy front cover all provide a pleasure that can only be compared to a
steaming hot chocolate on a winter’s night (wow, that was some rather cheesy Gouda right there). The same goes for novels – the smell of a book to me
is what freshly baked cookies are to Mary Berry; delightful. When I see a book that’s
been poorly treated, I feel the need to take it into my chest and embrace it as
if it was an abused animal. Why would someone curl your corners or highlight
phrases, you poor paperback?
