“I love the smell of book ink in the morning.”

“I even love the smell of books.”

“She loved the smell of books, the feel of books, the look of them on the shelf.”

“Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go.”

“There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books.”

“I rather like the smell of absurdity in the morning.”

“A book has got smell. A new book smells great. An old book smells even better. An old book smells like ancient Egypt.”

“I like the smell of armpits in the morning. It's like victory.”

“The place was part museum, part library, and part archive; I loved it at first sight…and smell, for here there were thousands of printed books, many very old indeed, and nothing smells quite as wonderful as old books.”

“How could I, who loved life so intensely, have let myself be entangled for so long in that balderdash of books and paper blackened with ink!”