It has been happening frequently since I
started writing this blog. Friends and family sending me little snippets from
newspapers and magazines that they think I might find interesting. It happened
just this morning in fact. A co-worker of mine who has become a good friend and
frequent blog reader forwarded me an article from the New York Times Book
Review called “The Way We Read Now.” The article discusses the ubiquitous new
mediums on which we consume the written word. On smartphones, e-readers,
tablets, and the like.
The argument over the best way to read has become
extraordinarily polarizing as of late. Proponents of the e-reader insist that
tangible books are out of fashion and the back-lit tablet is too hard on the
eyes for long-term reading. Fans of the tablet insist that the e-reader is too
simplistic - because of course we need to be able to listen to music, watch a
movie, send e-mails, and surf the web while we read. And most everyone, it
seems, agrees that actual books - the ones we see on our bookshelves and hold
in our hands - are going out of style.
And it makes me a little sad. As I have
written before, my most important milestones are marked by the books I read.
Real books. Tangible ones. First day of college. My first grown-up apartment.
Getting married. First job. Deaths. Births. Life. It makes me sad to think that
my own kids might experience these most pivotal milestones with e-readers and
tablets - rather than dogeared pages - in tow. And if that is, in fact, the
case, will they look back and remember the events clearly? Or will the whole
experience be viewed through the haze of blue light emanating from their device
of choice?
It’s not that I don’t understand e-books.
There is something to be said for having hundreds of books, and the ability to
order more with the press of a button, at your fingertips. My shoulders -
aching from years of carrying around bags full of romance novels - would probably appreciate the break. About a
year ago, my wonderful husband actually downloaded a file that contained every
single book that Nora Roberts has ever written. He loaded them onto a iPad for
me, which I carried around for a few weeks. Amazing as it was to have all of
her books at my immediate disposal, I could never quite master the art of
reading off a piece of electronic equipment. It wasn’t long before my real
books started sneaking their way back into my bag.
I still carry around the iPad. And I love it.
But I don’t read books on it. Instead, my iPad and my books have become fast
friends in the center pocket of my favorite bag.
There is something else to the “e-book” vs.
“actual book” argument, though, that I rarely hear addressed. I wrote awhile
back about one of my favorite commuting activities - checking out the book
selection of my fellow subway riders. What I didn’t mention then is that this
honored pastime is growing more and more difficult with each passing day. More
often than not my subways are buses are filled commuters reading books under
the Kindle’s veil of anonymity.
And this makes me sad too. While I will rarely
join a book club for reasons far too complex to discuss right now, I love to
see what people are reading. If they are reading something new to me, I
sometimes copy down the title to add to my collection. If they are reading
something I have read, I wonder if their opinion will match mine. Occasionally
I have hovered over a Kindle owner’s shoulder, trying my very best to catch a
glimpse of the book title that hovers at the top of the e-book. But more often
than not, my efforts are met with a searing look from the owner, wondering why
I am committing this gross violation of her personal space. Message received.
I am sure that the accessibility of e-books
have created readers out of people that might otherwise never have discovered
the power of the written word. But still I wonder. I wonder if e-books are
laying the foundation for a generation of kids who never touch an actual book.
Who never feel the thrill of opening a shiny new cover to reveal the story
inside. Who never experience the sweet sorrow of closing a book upon completion
and laying it on a shelf to be read again on some future date. Who grow up
choosing a book from a list of files, rather than from the organized chaos of a
positively brimming bookshelf.
The New York Times article ends with a
poignant quote by Anna Quindlen who once wrote: “I would be most content if my
children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly
of building enough bookshelves.” I would be too.
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