The new book is a slab of paradise. There are few objects as pleasing to the touch. Its textures and edges are at once both lavish and raw, and vouch for craftsmanship. Corners are tightrope-taut, covers smooth as early-morning ice rinks. A thumb dragged down a new book’s fore-edge encounters a Kendal Mint Cake surface of complexity and friction. Its scent is heady and intoxicating, card and paper for now pure and unclaimed by environment.
The new book is experienced like a piece of finely carved oak, sitting flush in the hand and more natural than anything man-made should realistically be. Its spine is unperturbed by marks, pocks or thread veins, a hospital floor rather than a garden path, its hinges mousetrap-sharp. Venture inside and there rest pages in the subtle hues of moorland lambs in springtime.
None of those pages has yet to be devoured. The new book is drenched in possibility and sparkles with promise. It rests in your hands, a cheerful soul ready to lift you upon its shoulders and take you to elsewheres and never-nevers. The two of you are about to enter happy battle together. No one before you has alighted upon these words – they await your eyes, queueing in the dark until the front board is cranked open, and then sheltering themselves from the glare.
Each new book is a gift to one’s self, a necessary indulgence. It is held and considered before the real diversion can begin.