Nose in a Book

In the digital age, paper is at risk of becoming a limited-edition fragrance— and perfumers have taken note

- Mattie Kahn

The basement smelled like old paint and metal; glue, newsprint, vanilla, sea-kissed sweat. A sign propped up on a table upstairs had drawn me down there, looking for spoils: “Books, $1 Each.” I was in Cape Cod for the summer and 10. After some dignified begging, I was granted an advance on allowance. I selected 20 books.

It took me months to work through the haul, which included a battered-up Roald Dahl box set and an illustrated version of The Secret Garden. Each time I opened one, I was back in the basement, treasure hunting. I started to prefer old books to new, not just for the inscriptions to strangers, but for that smell. Old books turned stories into portals; until then, I hadn’t known reading could feel like time travel.

Science hasn’t cracked wormholes, but it has deconstructed the scents that make the experience of old books so appealing. Cecilia Bembibre, a lecturer at the UCL Institute for Sustainable Heritage, specializes in the preservation of historic smells and spends much of her time breaking down their particular compositions. In our digital era, old books meet her research qualifications; paper is at risk of becoming a limited-edition fragrance.