Books are miracles. Their gradual, persistent emergence in our world changed every other element of society, over and over again. Their long, successful slog toward affordability and maneuverability bends my mind. Books have always been priceless. Almost beyond our grasp.
So I celebrate readers of all stripes and ages and preferences and interests. I don’t really care how you read, only that you are a reader. Which is why I’m always knocked a bit for a loop when someone tells me–with a small edge of superiority, a soupcon of sanctimoniousness–that they prefer real books. That in order to enjoy a novel they must hold a tome in their hand, feel its heft. I understand their preference. And gracefully grant them that.
It’s the sanctimonious part that niggles at me. It’s the suggestion that real readers, informed people, true believers only read three-dimensional books.
Maybe, instead, they would be more in touch with the writer and her ideas if they could hold a clay tablet, or a slab of wax, or a scroll—once they’ve managed the mechanics of unrolling. Perhaps they’d like to hire a troupe or a troop of monks to copy and decorate a book just like the one their neighbor has.
I’m talking glibly . . .but honestly.
Why the disdain for publications that now live in the clouds, that—short of Mr. Bezos’ extortionate strategies—are available anytime to anyone with some form of a baby computer?
I bought a Kindle before I took my first trip to Europe. Both were incredible luxuries. One was scary. One was comforting. Reading has always been my blankie, the warm elixir of words I’ve used to soothe myself through tough times. Escape. I couldn’t imagine finding myself alone in Italy without a large enough stack of paperbacks to see me through 15 nights. Nor could I imagine toting all those around. I planned to carry no more than 20 pounds of belongings.
So Kindle it was. 2011 and we were still using stand-alone cameras, but in the great parade of book formats, the e-reader had appeared.
I haven’t looked back.
Yes, I love bookstores and libraries and the exquisite process of browsing–of being intrigued by titles; noting authors who’ve produced a series of volumes; of admiring the artistry of jacket covers left on new books; of sampling categories outside my usual taste.
Yes, I miss the quality of photographs that “real books” include. I miss the ability to flip back to place the action on a clearly printed map.
But my Kindle brings me the ideas, the plots, the turns of phrase, the gifts of language and imagination that make so many books heartening, strengthening, dazzling. Nothing about my small screen detracts from the quality of writing, the enormity of thoughts.
I’ve got macular degeneration—so I revel in the luxury of changing backgrounds and increasing font size. I have a friend for whom reading text silently is disorienting. She treasures audible books.
And, without a Kindle in hand, my bedside stack of conventional books—unread or partially read—would tower to the ceiling. Now, when I settle into bed at night, I have, at my fingertips, almost endless choices for that evening.
And yes, if I substituted “real” volumes for the hundreds on my Kindle, you’d call me a hoarder. To find me, you’d have to weave through labyrinthine paths of teetering novels and essays and histories and biographies and scientific journals and poems. The dining table would be covered. The refrigerator bulging. Windows overgrown with climbing vines of words. The cat might have met an unfortunate topple. And I might have been smushed by the weight of all those pages. * ©
*This isn’t altogether fictitious. For a long time in my single life, I couldn’t afford bookshelves. So I stacked my beloved tomes in tall piles, set a few on every step of a stairway. Decorated with books. Organized books as the base of a table lamp. And paid a king’s ransom in moving costs just to keep them with me.
