Anton Kleist was a lover of books. His love for them was as much a sensual thing as intellectual. He liked their appearance on shelves, the texture of leather bindings against his palms. When he opened a book he waited to savour the rich smell of paper and age before turning his mind to the contents. Sometimes he would lift it close to his face, drinking in the smell of it as if there were no need to read the words at all. Even with new books there was an enjoyable sense of anticipation when he held one in his hands. He was the sort of man who shouldn't have dealt in books. 'They don't let alcoholics run hotels,' his wife had said, though even as she said it she knew it wasn't true.
From Soundings by Liam Davison, p27
