There aren't many things in life that give me joy, but thin paper is one of them. The sort that you can only write on one side of because it shows through; the sort that crackles when you handle it. In the absence of true happiness, thin paper goes a long way. It earns respect through its delicateness - you can't treat it like copier paper. You need to be gentle, caress it between thumb and forefinger as if you're turning the pages of an ancient manuscript, giving pause to appreciate its form above its content. It lends authority to a book, like a frail old soothsayer whispering wisdom from the mouth of a darkened cave.
At a school assembly in my early teens we were all given copies of the New Testament. I treasured mine and still have it somewhere. The contents were complete drivel as far as I was concerned, but the pages were cigarette paper thin. The pious distributors must have thought they had snared another follower as I leafed through it with delight, all of them sadly unaware that I was touching and listening rather than reading. Similarly, I'm certain that my enjoyment of Thomas Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd was considerably enhanced by my copy's bright white wafer-like pages. Kindle? Try Thindle.
If the world shared my joy of thin paper, think how many trees it would save - not only by making wood pulp go further, but in cardboard files as folders could accommodate more sheets. There's my manifesto - I'm publishing it on 30gsm.
But if paper can't be thin, let it be smooth. A soft mechanical pencil gliding gracefully over Bristol board could surely rehabilitate the most hardened convict. I believe Michael Jackson touched upon the idea in Smooth Criminal. It's worth buying an artist's pad of it just to write your name on.
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