Reading an old 1959 copy of Kafka’s The Castle. It must be somewhat obscure. I cannot find an image of its cover online and the book itself only appears companioned by a fuzzy photograph on antique book sites.
The joy of the physical book confounds — the yellowed edges of the grainy-wood page, the elegant serifed typeface, and the papery book jacket that swishes and crinkles when the book is handled.
And the smell; that nostalgic blend of decay and dust and musty knowledge. It’s an avowal that the elements of the book were made from a living thing, damp and leafy.
It smells alive.