Friends say David Karpel’s family smells. He claims that’s just the musky scent of book love.
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The Karpel smell.
Yes, it has actually been given a name.
“Mr. Karpel, you smell like books. Your whole house smells like books—”
“Not when I’m cooking!”
“Your whole family smells like books.”
This former student of mine is not alone in her assessment.
At first, I was embarrassed. But having given it thought, the essence of that redolent decree stands fine with me.
I don’t know what that smell is. My house always seems to me to smell like rank teenage body odor. Or a bouquet of dirty dishes in the sink mixed with drying, Downy scented jiu jitsu gis. Or some concoction I or my wife may have recently attempted in the kitchen that inevitably included sautéed onions.
Right now the immediate area smells like hot, panting dog.
Walking out in the world, I’m a combination of all of those smells and more.
But what gets picked up is that we have a bookish smell, a smell of paper infused with countless scents and sensibilities.
I couldn’t resist. Plus, it’s true. Nervous or over-excited readers must have sweated more than others, leaving a particular scent shared with the next owner’s until I found that book, Philip K. Dick’s Galactic Pot-Healer, lodged in the bottom shelf, back corner, behind two piles of Star Wars and Wheel of Time paperbacks at the Women In Distress Thrift Shop in Margate, Florida. Paid for it with two shiny quarters and a pair of sore knees. Not a bad price at all.
Is it only me or do other book people stand before their shelves and breathe with joy as if they just walked into a circle of friends? Anyone do the same at the discovery of a new thrift store or used book store?
Our shelves are stuffed and piled with books sought and bought mostly in used books shops, book depositories, or thrift stores. Some gifted, some borrowed. Just that one kind of permanently-by-accident. I swear I didn’t know I’d move and she’d, the lady, well, that she’d pass away so suddenly four years later.
Every so often I fail myself (I’m a fake snob, really) and crave the convenience of immediate access to the local Barnes and Noble or online shopping.
But there’s nothing like treasure hunting the shelves of a place like Read It Again, Sam in Charlottesville, Virginia, or Big Apple Books in Ft. Lauderdale, or any chanced upon thrift store along the way.
These adventures yield pearls and friends. Memories and secrets. And of course, these places have that musky mixed smell of sawdust, of smoky warmth, of steak and wine and coffee, of butternut squash and leaves of grass.
I can’t help myself.
That’s our smell. It’s the smell of thought-bomb warriors. The smell of fiery heroes.
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So we’re bringing all this paper into our house. And so we have increased our combustibility many fold over the years.
Which means we smell like we can burn.
We have the potential to burn with life, to alight, to reach great heights and disperse darkness.
That is the book people smell.
That’s our smell. It’s the smell of thought-bomb warriors. The smell of fiery heroes.
We wear the book scent, the scent of history, of shared joys, shared minds, shared grease and sweat and conversations across time, sometimes with evidence of a drink of coffee or of something to eat with Sriracha sauce, and sometimes with a tear stain, pencil marks, doodles, notes, or a dog-eared crease.
We wear the scent of humanity. We are steeped in the hopes, fears, dreams, and desires of fellow humans, of tragedy and joy and love.
That’s it, ultimately, isn’t it?
We smell this way because of love.
My gosh, we smell like love!
Yes, book people smell is the smell of love.
How quaint.
How novel.
—modified photo Seth Anderson / Flickr Creative Commons
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Excellent Collection
This is my English teacher!!!
He’s such a great writer! I love reading this and re-reading this!
Love, Your Stalker Student