Essence of Old Books

In a culinary blend of literature and flavor, Chef Wojciech Popow recently posted to Instagram unveiling a novel concept – literally. He distilled the coveted ‘old book smell,’ a nostalgic aroma cherished by book lovers, into an ingredient fit for a gastronomic masterpiece. His method began with Terry Pratchett’s comic fantasy novel Pyramids. On camera, he used chemicals to extract hexanal and other compounds produced from the breakdown of paper from the surface of the yellowing pages. The process was complex, involving releasing the substances, physical scraping the pages, and then distillation. The process is so damn cool. I’d love to try an old book soufflé.

But, as an author and book lover, I find myself at a crossroads. While the innovation intrigues me, the destruction of a piece of literature in the process gives me pause. Of course, it’s not a rare book. The print run could have been around 160,000 copies in the UK alone. It’s definitely not like using the Audubon Double Elephant Folio.

Nevertheless, it makes me wonder whether the essence of a book rests solely in its ideas, or is the culmination of the physical vessel and the knowledge it imparts. When the narrative of Pyramids is no longer accessible, does it merely become wood pulp and ink? Or is the idea of “old book” valuable in itself? Perhaps the allure of the old book smell is intertwined with the myriad ideas books carry, or we carry about them, whispering learning from worn-out pages and evoking a blend of ideas, memories, and emotions. It becomes an archetype.

Take, for instance, HBO’s series “A Discovery of Witches,” (which came out a while ago, but I’m slow). Much of Season 1 takes place within the hallowed halls of the Bodleian Library at Oxford University. As the show plunges into the realms of ancient magic, witchcraft, vampirism, even briefly referencing Sir Isaac Newton’s interest in alchemy, the sepia-toned library scenes immerse us in an aura of mystery around old books and leverage the emotions we expect to have in a rare book library. It’s a world where the content of the books, steeped in age-old knowledge, integrates with the intangible aura they exude. Visually, the series relies on that archetype in the same way as “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” or “Game of Thrones.” (See the Reel Librarians blog for a wonderful compendium of libraries on film.)

But what is it about old books that evokes this sensation? Is it fascination about the knowledge they harbor, or is it the essence of their character as objects? For me, at least, it’s both. When I’m at work and visit the collection of ‘incunables’ (books published before 1501) at the Linda Hall, I feel I’m not only getting a glimpse into the mind of the author, but a window into the societies in which the works were created, and even a sense of the hands through which the book must have passed on its journey to our institution. While the content of many of these works intrigues me academically, the books themselves also wield a sort of illusory magic that evokes strong emotions.

The essence of old books, then, isn’t just in the smell that Chef Popow has ingeniously bottled. It’s in the stories they tell and the ones they’ve seen unfold. It’s in the annotations scribbled in the margins by thinkers of the past, and the worn-out pages that have been turned time and again by inquisitive minds. These portals to bygone eras, narrate tales of civilizations past and people who once held them, read them, and cherished them. They are silent witnesses to the evolution of thought, art, and human endeavor.

So, when we talk about the essence of old books, it’s a blend of the tangible and intangible. It’s the scent of age, the feel of coarse pages, the sight of faded ink, and the sound of whispering tales of yore. It’s also the emotions they evoke – of nostalgia, reverence, curiosity, and wonder. In an era where the digital realm dominates our interactions and exchanges, the swift move to digitization has raised contemplative questions about the essence of objects, particularly books. As our libraries move online and manuscripts become mere pixels on our screens, one is left to ponder: Does a scanned book possess the same intrinsic value and presence as its physical counterpart?

If old books are artifacts of history, representing the diligence with which knowledge was recorded, preserved, and shared across generations, by contrast, a digitized book, though it holds the same textual content, lacks this tangible history. While it offers the advantages of preservation and universal accessibility, it exists in a space devoid of physicality. The experience of reading a digital book is uniform, devoid of the unique imperfections and idiosyncrasies that give physical books their character. The weight, texture, and even the scent – aspects that connect readers to the continuum of history – are absent. Yet, if we distill the essence of a book to its ideas and the knowledge it imparts, then arguably, the format becomes secondary. A digitized book still conveys the thoughts, discoveries, and imaginations of its author, acting as a bridge between minds. In this light, a scanned book is indeed an object, albeit in a different dimension. It’s an object in the vast expanse of digital space, anchoring ideas in a sea of ephemeral data.

As our world transitions between the tangible and digital, the essence of what constitutes an ‘object’ evolves. While the allure of physical books and their embodiment of history is undeniable, we have to acknowledge the evolving nature of knowledge transmission. Both physical and digital books stand as testaments to humanity’s insatiable quest for knowledge and the myriad ways we choose to preserve and propagate it. So, while I marvel at Wojciech Popow’s innovation and the unique way he’s paid homage to books, I am reminded that the true essence of old books is vast, layered, and nuanced. It goes beyond aroma, flavor, or even content. It lies in the connections they create, bridging past and present, and the timeless stories they continue to tell.