I went out today with the intention of buying a kindle touch. The words marched, business-like, across the grey, monochromatic, matte screen. I tried very hard to get excited, flipping pretend pages, and changing font sizes. Yes, I know all the arguments for convenience and functionality (Get books in 60 seconds! less than 6 ounces! Fits in your pocket! Holds 1,400 books!) but I still came out empty-handed. Then promptly spent the rest of the afternoon at bookshops, fondling clothbound Coralie Bickford-Smith covers, creepily sniffing deckle-edged pages, and reverently turning the pages of overly-large coffee table art books with two hands. Maybe I'll change my mind later on but I hold the process of reading books on an irrational, romantic, sentimental, idealistic pedestal. Reading isn't just about words on a page; it's how the paper feels underneath your hands, the smell of old pages and new glue binding, illustrations on covers, and how battered and worn a particular favourite can become. Its a world beyond a mere medium in which information is conveyed; it is its own tactile, microcosmic world.
♥ Photos by Rob D ♥