Claire Armitstead’s article (8 April) on the smell of books is delightful: I can often recall my first reading of a book when I smell it. But she focused on the paper and didn’t touch on the pungent and very different smells of ink.
Writing to the TLS more than a decade ago, the Australian poet John Tranter describes what many people, with perhaps a little embarrassment, discreetly do: “Half-open the book, stick your nose into it, and inhale: the spicy scent of hand-blended printer’s ink, preserved between the closed pages for nearly a hundred years, is delicious. It has odours of wax polish and old saddles and a hint of burnt heather, with a suggestion of Laphroaig whisky around the edges. And yes, like Laphroaig, its smell is reminiscent of pipe tobacco”
And the differences of smell were far from random. Douwe Draaisma tells the wonderful story of a woman reading a book who suddenly felt overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness. “She came to realise that, as a child, all her books were printed in London, and that English and American print have very different odours.” The joyfully diverse smell of books is a cocktail of paper, chemicals, mould and ink. Modern books all seem to smell much the same.
Martin Rose
Saffron Walden, Essex
• The smells of books, yes but what about the press? Private Eye, the London Review of Books and New Scientist each have an individual odour, perhaps not only due the ink. All British newspapers smell to me of iPad, but may I invite readers to start sniffing the papers on display where they shop, and to write about their experiences? They could perhaps wrinkle their nose or gag as they sniff a right-whinge tabloid, then sigh happily at the Guardian’s warm aroma, which might even increase sales.
Brian Smith
Berlin, Germany
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• This first letter above was amended on 11 April 2017. An earlier version misspelled Armitstead as Armistead.
