Some of the best books I've ever read were bought at airports. Dark Star by Alan Furst (Heathrow). Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges (JFK). And now, at Roissy, Sur la route du papier by Erik Orsenna. It was lucky that I'd forgotten to pack a book for the trip, because Orsenna turned out to be very good company indeed. He is a member of an unofficial community I secretly aspire to. They are daydreamers, voyagers, faintly nostalgic; gentlemen in an ungentle world, trying to make sense of it all. And how clever of Monsieur Orsenna to choose as his subject a precious substance that may be on the verge of extinction: paper.
Orsenna's book is a history and a journey, but it's also a love letter. He makes it clear that he writes his books on paper, using a pencil. These days I write on a screen; but 25 years ago I used a typewriter. At the newspaper, the paper was cheap and grainy, the colour of sand. Disposable, like news. You would ratchet two sheets into your typewriter, separated by purple carbon paper. But at home, where I typed my more creative endeavours, I used something called Top Copy. It was white and pristine, like a perfectly pressed cotton shirt.
Orsenna's book reminds us that paper was, for centuries, the way we shared ideas and stories. It would be a shame if it disappeared forever, like the long-ago rattle of that busy typewriter.
