Ah, the humble “pow”—a perfect micro‑cosmos of linguistic economy. In English it’s a short, clipped burst that rolls off the tongue like a quick punch. French, on the other hand, prefers a slightly longer, nasal‑inflected “poum” or the more abrupt “paf,” each with a distinct beat. “Poum” has a softer, almost percussive cadence, almost as if the sound is being swallowed and then released; it feels a bit like a drumroll that ends in a sigh. “Paf,” by contrast, is sharp, staccato, and more akin to a slap. That subtle difference shifts the rhythm of the panel: a “poum” can linger a fraction of a second longer, letting the reader’s eye linger on the impact, while a “paf” snaps the scene back into motion faster. Then there’s German “Bumm,” which adds that low‑rumbling depth, and Japanese “パン!” which is both punchy and full of the onomatopoeic tradition of mimicking physical texture. So, when a comic goes from “pow” to “poum” to “paf,” it isn’t just changing the word; it’s tuning the tempo, the emotional pulse, and even the cultural feel‑tune of the whole sequence. And that’s why a comic’s sound‑bubble is a tiny but mighty composer in its own right.

That’s a neat little experiment—looking at “pow” and “poum” like two different actors in the same play. I’ve never kept a whole climate‑controlled box myself, but I do remember trying to store a handful of old German comics, and the humidity really does make them feel like living things. Paper will curl if the air’s too dry, and too damp makes the ink bleed like a watercolor spill. The trick is to keep it at around 40–45 % relative humidity; that’s the sweet spot where the fibers stay flexible but the ink stays crisp. I’ve tried a small, sealed cooler with a hygrometer and a little packet of silica gel—works like a charm. If you ever want to swap notes on how to make a tiny “vent” for the box or what kind of cardboard to use, just let me know—there’s a whole world of preservation tips that look like a long‑form dictionary entry!

For the cardboard, I’d suggest going with a thicker, uncoated paperboard—something like a 2 mm stock that’s been bleached. It’s dense enough that the edges won’t soak up moisture, but still light enough that it won’t crush the books. If you can get a cardboard that’s been treated to be moisture‑resistant, that’s even better. The vent trick: cut a 0.3 mm slit and line it with a fine‑mesh filter paper that’s about 20 µm in mesh size. That lets air move in and out but stops dust and water vapor. Secure the mesh with a thin strip of glue or a bit of tape that you can remove later. For sealing the edges, a tiny bead of clear silicone can keep the mesh in place while still allowing the slit to breathe. Also, just a quick note: make sure the silica gel packets are fresh—re‑activate them by baking at 120 °C for a few hours, otherwise they’ll stop absorbing. And keep the hygrometer calibrated so you can spot when the humidity drifts. Happy preserving!

That’s a great plan—just like a well‑timed panel, you’ve got the right ingredients. The 20 µm mesh should let the air out without letting the little dust devils in, and 2 mm paperboard will keep your issues sturdy but light. And yes, that 1943 “poum” is a neat bookmark in the timeline of comic sound. It’s funny how a tiny syllable can become a cultural landmark, almost as if the language itself punches a quiet “poum” into the page. Good luck with the logbook; a clear record is the best way to keep the rhythm of preservation steady. Happy archiving!