Smell the paper
OH, the joy—we can visit bookshops again. Yes, internet delivery was a godsend when libraries were also shut and many people would otherwise have been starved of literature, but nothing beats the real thing. Enlightened staff to advise. Tables temptingly arranged with the latest titles. Shelves for browsing in case you don’t quite know what you want to enjoy and hold yourself open to surprises. This is the enchantment of bookshops, qualities that Amazon, however efficient during lockdown and however cleverly it tries to read your tastes, cannot replicate: the serendipity of discovering a work that you hadn’t been remotely conscious of when you entered the shop, whether a Victorian titan of a three-decker or a young author writing gritty prose. The smell of the paper is as exciting as greasepaint…