The Antiquarian

Note to reader: This was originally posted as a Medium article some months ago... Enjoy.

​The rain pattered atop my somber blue raincoat, as my ears thrummed amidst the rhythm and the passing vehicles reverberated inside my hood. Squishing tires splashed small puddles along the curb, which missed my sodden feet by only inches. I lifted my pale eyes to the street lantern, which flashed at a pause with two yellow bulbs before transitioning to green. I squelched across the road with a jaunt, street signs creaked as I passed underway. 

    Edinburgh’s streets are dark, not just because they are Gothic, the architectural style is known for sweeping upward with sharp steeples and pointed arches, but because it is a somber city, in the most beautiful of ways. On this day, I roamed a neighborhood south of Edinburgh Castle, an area known for a small cluster of local bookstores. I’d visited two already, and I was slowly making my way to a third. 

The noted book store hails itself as the chief store for antique books in the region, which says something considering the ancient history of the area. In the United States, if people discover anything from before the turn of the 20th century, it is instantly declared ancient, put on a shelf, and often sold at an antique emporium on the outskirts of a city. On the contrary, to be old in Europe, you must last at least a millennia, if not longer. 

When you conjure images of antique books in your mind, you might picture an old professor bound in a musty attic assiduously perusing dusted covers of Shakespeare or John Locke. Perhaps, they might be sitting in an old chair with creaky arms. With that image in mind, I strolled into the properly named Armchair Books. 

As my trail runners squeaked along the sidewalk, I rounded the corner, passing a coffee shop as the store came into view. From the outside, the book store appeared like a maze—no, a jungle—of books, stacked haphazardly onto shelves, the floor, and across a teetering plank lining the palely lit roof. A creaky green door opened to an awkward tight corner, which, when traversed, immersed one in a tunnel of books. I stepped into a breeze of warmth, pale lamplight, and a pathway of books. 

People often describe the smell of old books simply as “that old book smell.” This description does no justice for books, nor for the smell. As I stepped through the first level of books, rounded a right-hand turn, and tiptoe past the employee desk, I glimpsed the first signs of an antiquarian room. The smell radiated before entering, and it was soothing, not in that it relaxed your muscles or mind but because it was calm. Yes, it was tranquil.

Relaxed, my eyes wandered between the nooks and crannies of shelves, followed soon by fingers that were tracing bindings. They passed over words and manuscripts, both frozen in time. After a minute, I reached high on one shelf and pulled down a copy of The New Testament. Blazoned with gold letters and a greenish-blue cover, the book was stiff and vinyl under my gently moving fingers. With forefinger and thumb, I carefully pulled back the hardcover of the tiny trinket. It was rigid, and I managed to move a few pages along the way, opening coincidentally to the publish date of 1895. Like moving the arthritic fingers of a grandparent, I slowly worked the pages back and forth before they regained their vigor once again, flowing freely to be read again. My eyes squinted to read the print figures along the gold-lined pages, wrapping each like a wedding ring so worn and old, like a widow refusing to take it off, even after all these years. 
    I stroked the cover once again with my hands and, stretching my left arm high above my head, replaced it again on the bookshelf. My eyes followed the lettering as I searched for more classics. I discovered a copy of children’s stories, some old poetry, and a book on Scottish history. Each filled with wonders, each telling a story, many of whom have been dormant for years, except for the small moment they were opened and priced by the bookstore employee. 

I spent a few minutes reading before I hear a squeak from the roughly patched floorboard nearby. I glanced up and met the eyes of an elderly gentleman with a flat cap. His cap was green and it matched his eyes. A cane in one hand, he moved slowly to navigate a step up into the antiquarian room. A few taps and he reached his bookshelf but not before getting distracted by the nearby Architecture section, which is comprised of mostly newer books. After a quick peek, his attention moved again, slowly, to the antiquarians. 
    I spent a few seconds observing his hands as they traced the covers of a few older pieces of literature. He finds a rather hefty book, tugs at it with a concerted effort, and manages to retrieve it with a little more effort. His stiff arm moves obliquely from the shelf and takes two attempts to straigthen. A shaking hand finds its way to the top of the hardcover, and he flicks open the top with a half-clasped fist. With a pointer finger and thumb clamped together, he thumbs through pages, five or ten at a time, before he backtracks with another five or ten. A few attempts later, he lands upon the publication date page and ponders over it for a minute. 

    With a sigh, he pauses, and says, “I remember this.”