If any other person invokes the smell of books and the musk of bookshops I shall have to expire.

The most recent sensory memory I have of a bookshop is that of a putrid rotting vermin corpse … dead somewhere in the vicinity of the BC Labour History titles I rifled through to retrieve the Premier’s Radio Address from 1935. (for a very reasonable price I hasten to add)

The Bookseller did warn me about el smell. His advice, don’t sniff.

I can’t quite comprehend this balding nostalgia for sniffing books. I have 2 dozen better suggestions of things to inhale. I remain unconvinced that the book needs to be gilded inside a (psychological)  tabernacle.