Explicit Liber Regis Quondam Regisque Futuri

For those of you looking for a translation to the Latin: This is the story of the Once and Future King

I still remember the first book I ever smelled: The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks. The book became popular when I was in the third grade because of the movie and I was given a copy of the book in school. For all its popularity, it did little to endear itself to me. The plot had merit but seemed predictable, the characters inspired indifference for their fates, and the writing didn't particularly impress me. A commercial book marketed to children experiencing the psychological stage of development where they believe toys are alive, children who've just exited that stage but secretly hold on to it, and mothers who want their children to read more and need a book with a premise tempting enough for their reluctant-to-read child--this book fulfilled its purpose by selling well for a few years, bringing in more bucks for the publisher when it materialized into a feature film, and ending up on the thrift store shelf a decade after its release. It was an instant gratification book for the publisher, hardly a classic. 

Despite my strong distaste for the story, read when I still maintained a policy of finishing every book I started, I loved the book. For the first time, I appreciated a book for the paper on which it was printed, for its glossy paperback cover and its black serif words. I suppose in human interaction appreciation for someone based solely on their physical features as opposed to the  content of their personality might fall within the realm of shallow behavior on the part of the beholder.  Yet, my appreciation for the object of a book kept me from discarding the story of the plastic-to-flesh Indian and instead secured it a place in the Hall of my Endearments.

One might inquire as to the origins of my affections for the book I read with displeasure: Lying on my stomach on the floor of my bedroom, couched between my bed and the window facing the east wall, completely unseen by anyone who might whim to enter my room; I fanned the gray-tinged pages against my face and the warm spring air, inhaling the scent slowly. I exhaled reluctantly and the held the rough-matte pages to my nose like a gardener to his fragrant flowers. The scent--musty and sharp--juxtaposed with the smell of unnatural man-made ink seemed so comfortable to me, soothing and familiar. 

Ever since that day, I doubt I have ever read a book without smelling it's pages: This simple action completes my relationship with the book. And every time I begin a new book, I am doing just that--embarking on a relationship. I share experiences, emotions, thoughts with each book I read; when I am with a book, I am only in the company of that book, setting aside a piece of myself and my time only for those paper-backed pages. 

Sometimes I get hurt in the relationship. Of Mice and Men rendered me unable to say I'd never read a book I didn't like: I'll never have those minutes of my life back again. As much as many of my friends enjoyed The Old Man and the Sea in my opinion, it was poetically shallow and confirmed my adoration for the rhapsodizing of Dickens. And, while I dearly loved the contents of Death of a Salesman,  the Penguin-classic pages from which I read smelled like puke--creating an exact juxtaposition to my experience with The Indian in the Cupboard. I later purchased another copy of the Arthur Miller play. Same book, different package.

Yet, despite all those poor literary relationships, my best relationship and most cherished developed the same way all my best human relationships form. It came from an unattractive, slightly abused--and by abused I mean it had giant red ink stains all over the pages--copy of The Once and Future King from the Salt Lake Public Library. Even before I read that beautiful opening line "On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays..." I cradled its spine in my left hand, placed my right thumb on the edge of its first page and with slight pressure against the back cover from the fingers on my right hand, I coursed my thumb from the first page to the last, slightly bending the book and sending the worn-soft pages waving past my eyes and blowing a swift breeze across my face. My whole body filled with the scent. It smelled wise, neglected, and forgotten. It smelled like soil that had been too many times tilled being planted again, a river that had seen one-too many floods returning to its natural peace, a tree that had weathered storms that had stressed its boughs resting its leaves in stillness.  It smelled like a book that had been through much and seen much, that had finally been put on a shelf to rest. Battered, flimsy, and broken, its yellow pages sighed and fell still in my hands. 

The relationship that followed was anything but peaceful. From the first fanning of its pages I had expected the best from this book. But this did not happen. The book seemed to drag on forever as I read it, dragging me along behind, hitting my head against rocks in the road. Reading this book was like walking through a desert without an oasis: It left me exhausted and thirsting for more, occasionally visioning  a mirage. For a book that seemed so void of strength, it put up a good fight. Or rather, I lost many battles with it. I battled against the plot that seemed to have too many sub-stories and get too sidetracked. I battled against characters and events that seemed annoying, unfortunate, abhor-able. I continued to read it only to avoid defeat. I was determined to finish every book I started and when I finished this one, I knew victory would be sweet. I took this book with me everywhere--to school to read after finishing tests, camping, to church, even in the car. It was my constant companion. 

What happened in the final ten pages can only be described by the closing lines of hymn 235 "Should You Feel Inclined to Censure:" It says "Do not form opinions blindly; hastiness to trouble tends;/Those of whom we thought unkindly Oft become our warmest friends." And so it was. I can honestly say that the last ten pages of The Once and Future King are perhaps some of the loveliest final pages I have ever read because, after hating this book so decidedly for months, everything came together in those final ten pages. Every story over which I had groaned, every character for whom I had harbored enmity, every line at which I had laughed with derision ("It's a whale!"), all these things suddenly revealed their purpose. Of the many fictions I have ever read, this one's message perhaps resonated the most with me. For the first time since I had started the book my figurative thirst was replaced with a real one: the one left there by the lump in my throat. 

These days, the book is my constant companion not because of my desire to conquer it, but because of the comfort I find in its pages. When I travel, it is the book in my carry-on, the one to which I cling to help me through long flights so often accompanied by anxiety. When I need something to read that I know will not let me down, it is the first book for which I reach. And when I need a book's pages to fan, paper and ink to smell, it takes precedence over all others. The original copy I read from the Salt Lake Public Library has since been returned--but not before becoming the first book I ever renewed. I now have my own copy, a little more stout, a little less abused. When I bought it from the bookstore, of all the pretty copies and editions I could have chosen, I chose the one that was perhaps the most unattractive only because it was the same edition as the one from the library. Every time I pick it up, it reminds me of all the experiences I had the first time I read it and how sweet the reward when I arrived at the end. And of all my books, it smells the best.