The Journal

Books smell great. Well, most of them. Some have an acidic tang that burns the nostrils. Most books, however, appeal to the nose. Paperbacks tend to be dry and dusty, while textbooks smell of printing press and computer lab. Every bound volume has its own aroma, a blend of its origins and all points thereafter. A diary belonging to someone who frequently cooks Italian will hum with tomato, basil, and garlic. A worn hardcover held dear to an aging gentleman will retain a puff of pipe tobacco.

Why is this important?

It’s important because I found the rarest thing imaginable: an unused journal with no scent whatsoever. No character, no hint, nothing. It was as blank as its pages.

I found it at a thrift shop, of all places. The book shelves were sparse that week, and I almost passed on the tired selection. Overcast skies waited outside, with the heavy taste of rain in the atmosphere, and I didn’t want to get caught between the shop and my small apartment. I scanned the few titles and turned away.

“There’s one I think you’ll like.” Maria, the regular cashier, smiled at me from the nearby counter. “It’s on the second shelf, to the left.”

I returned her smile with an effort. She was sweet to her customers, but she didn’t know me. I didn’t know me.

Still, she had a way of knowing what I might enjoy. I walked back to the spot she indicated, and then I saw it. Soft, dark brown leather stuck out from its battered neighbors. Creamy pages were hidden inside. I flipped through to find they were empty. All but one. A short passage was inscribed on the final page.

The world of reality has its bounds, the world of imagination is boundless.

Rousseau

I pulled the journal up to my nose to capture its identity only to find it had none. Not even the leather or inked passage had scents. The journal was utterly blank. I had to have it, as Maria had presumed.

As I walked home, my solitary purchase tucked in a protective plastic bag, warm, humid wind gusted at my back. The slightly metallic flavor of rain intensified and gave way to the splattering deluge it favored. I didn’t mind. My new treasure was safe, and I craved the cleansing.

Inside my humble space, I searched out a ball-point pen. I found two—one blue and one black. To most people, it might seem a small matter, but I found it difficult to choose. Blue ink would look strange in the dignified volume. Black was too somber. A pencil, however, was just the thing.

I dug a box from my bedroom closet. Inside, as I’d hoped, was a plastic container which held twenty-two bright yellow pencils with green lettering and pink erasers. Perfect. I fished out the handheld sharpener and headed to the card table that made up a minute dining area.

The journal slid out of the plastic bag with a satisfying rustle. I set it on the table then opened to the first page.

☼

I poured my soul into each page. What I wrote has no bearing upon this tale, other than this: Yes, it is good to dream. And yes, it can grow from the smallest seed—even if the seed was planted from the smell of a book.