I really do like the features of eBooks. You can get loads of content free and some at a small price. It’s environmentally friendlier than chopping down tonnes of trees to create those heavy books. But somehow I still prefer the physical manifestation of knowledge and stories and everything else.
There is something curious about owning a book. It feels like, in a million or perhaps billion copies of books, this particular copy seems destined to be in your hands. Like the three sisters of Fate brought the both of you together.
Sure, eBooks costs less to own and even less [in terms of resources] to produce; It also weighs alot less. You could download a 100 books [if you have the memory space for it] and it will still weigh the same as when you first got whatever device you install them on. You could literally bring your personal library with you wherever you want to on the globe without much effort. But to me, a book is like a personal, physical extention of myself. I know, it sounds gross. But hear me out.
When you first lay eyes on that particular copy, it calls out to you. The first sight of its cover attracts you. You pick it up. The title teases you to what lays inside. A marvelous story about to unfold. Promises of adventure for you to explore whispered to you by the tangible, hefty [or sometimes not so hefty] volume. You read a little of the summary at the back and the tease continues. You purchase the book with your own money, money gained through hard work toiled with you own two hands. The book now belongs to you and you only. The proof of purchase quantifies the notion of ownership. Caressing the volume at the comfort of your own choosing, you open to the first page. In classic versions, you’ll find a red page, like a curtain before a play. In modern times, the curtain pales to a ghastly white or cream. You pull back the curtains and the prelude begins. The musty smell of the book brings you into a trance-like state, luring you into the story. The surrounding sounds stick to the pages like they are made of fly-paper. And you’ll find that the next time you open to that page, you’ll always find that you can hear a faint echo of the first day you opened the book. The feel of the pages brings back memories of that same day. The clothes you wore, the place you were at. A faint echo. Of days of innocence. Simpler times where your inexperience made existence a bliss.
After reaching to the end of the book, it feels heavier, because now it is filled with your memories. Your thoughts. Your theories behind the plot.
All these, I find lacking in an eBook, though it faintly resembles a book, as many has tried to emulate it. The way the pages flip, the sound it makes, you can even customize the pages to look like an aged, oxidized-brown page. But here is no substitute to the textured paper and the various marks you left behind on a book. Like a coffee stain that instantaneously transport you the the very fateful day that you were drinking coffee and accidentally dripped on that page. Or that ear-mark that reminds you of interruptions of a relaxing read. Memories. Left behind on your very own copy.
Like Mr. Giles once said “Knowledge comes from crafted bindings and pages; not 1′s and 0′s!” “. I love the musty smells, the weight of books in my hands.
And I also love to read the papers rather than get news from the web, if time allows. Again, the smell and feel. The total normalcy of it. Rather than looking busy and trying to absorb mass information in the quickest time, having breakfast over the papers just seems more real. Or being dependent on my device for everything. Sometimes, having different media sources for different things keeps things fresh. Rather than looking at my iPhone for every single content I want, having alternatives keeps my iPhone more engaging for me in the long run. Plus you can’t whack someone with a rolled up piece of Internet.
