It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.
― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1892)
I love the smell of old paper: sweet, dry and nostalgic.1
Some people, of course, dismiss it as the smell of must, mould or decomposing wood.
But to me, it is also walking through a copse of trees in summer, climbing into a wooden treehouse, browsing the shelves of an old library, sitting down on old furniture, searching through the storeroom in your old house, a secondhand bookshops’ cosy atmosphere, and smelling chocolate or coffee beans.2
