It’s the time of year to buy school supplies. I relish getting them all together: the smell of freshly printed notebooks, the clean white pages, and the promise of all the wonderful things to be recorded in them. However, it will come as no surprise to regular readers of this column that I love old books, too. There are stacks of them in every room of my house. I stock up at garage sales, where I can find affordable and unique tomes. Lately, my techie husband has renewed his efforts to get me hooked on e-books. They are readily available through libraries and online. However, I can’t quite commit to this modern solution to too many bookshelves. There is just nothing like an old book.

The first book of mine which I considered old was an unexpected arrival when a friend down-sized. Published in 1909, each page of text in this hardcover was printed on a page decorated with Art Nouveau curlicues. It was a work of art. In my naive enthusiasm, I asked a book dealer about it and was promptly put in my place when he informed me that books of that age were a dime a dozen and a book had to date from the 1500s to be considered old. Humph. Clearly, he was an elitist. Sadly, the story in this book was not as appealing as its cover, which featured a lovely woman’s face and the word Cupid in the title. Eventually, I let it go to another home.

Recently, a book from 1897 passed through my book collection. This was the oldest volume I ever possessed; the pages were browning and it smelled vaguely of decaying paper and dust. Charmingly named Cricket and Eunice, this children’s book was the story of little girls in a wealthy family having adventures with, among other things, a camera, a goat, and a bottle of ink. I had no idea that cameras were sold with developing fluids for the home enthusiast at such an early date. This amusing tale illustrates part of the appeal of old books: they are a window into life in another time.

This concept was enforced by a couple of books published in the 1920s that I found on my shelf this spring. One was a contemporary adaptation from a silent movie, featuring William Powell in one of his early villain roles. Christened Love’s Greatest Mistake, it included stills from the 1927 film. These are the only visuals from the motion picture that still exist; the film itself has since disintegrated and there are no known copies. This old book is an important record of film history.

The other 1920s book, The Seven Sleuths Club, was a sweet children’s story about a group of teenage girls who form a club to help others and to solve mysteries. One can only hope that girls of that era really were as innocent as the book portrays; it certainly contrasts with what one sees at a high school today. While this publication is available online, even as an audiobook at archive.org, there is nothing like holding an actual book in one’s hands.

My very favorite old book physically isn’t that old at all, less than a decade older than me. The story, however was written in 1813 and is still hugely popular today, having spawned numerous printings, movies and adaptations (including a recent one involving zombies, if you can believe it!). It entered my life as a library discard rescued by a friend. I received this volume when I was in university, at the peak of my Feminist Phase, and was astounded to find that something written so long ago had a feminist bent, as it lamented the limited options available to women at that time.

I have a completely irrational love affair with this book. It lives on my bedside table, where it is easily accessible, should I need its comfort to lull me to sleep. I probably read it between two and five times a year; frankly, I’ve lost count. This story is copyright free and digital versions are easily accessible online, however, I treasure my old book. I love the smooth crispness of the pages and the imprints of the type. I cherish the sheen of the gilded title on the spine and the woven texture of the faded red cloth binding. I adore the etched illustrations created in 1895 which are included in my edition and I value its diminutive size which fits so perfectly in my clasp. After years of affection, that wore away at the damaged binding, I finally decided to commit to owning this tome for the rest of my life and splurged on having it rebound. I will treasure it always.

There are so many new options available for the modern reader. Digital books are compact, portable and inexpensive. They are durable and impervious to the ravages of insects, molds, and fluctuations of temperature and humidity. Libraries and organizations such as archive.org and gutenburg.org are making a huge selection of texts available digitally that might be difficult to find (or afford) in traditional printed format. I admit these are all excellent reasons to embrace the recent development of a new medium for texts. However, I will continue to treasure my old books. They are works of art. They are remnants from another age, reflecting contemporary biases and ideals. When did I fall in love with old books? “I cannot fix on the hour, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” (a quote from my favourite old book – can you guess its title?)

This article was originally printed in the BERGEN NEWS and is being reprinted with permission.