When I first heard about ebooks, I was horrified. Something deep within me flinched. Surely, I thought – my surface brain trying to rationalise this atavistic spasm – the tactile reality of books is an intrinsic part of the joy of books?
Nowadays I only read a physical book if there really is no alternative
The satisfying crack of opening up a new hardback (sorry to the timid but I love getting my thumbs in). The unmistakable aroma, from the vanilla hint of co-polymers in the freshly minted paperback to the cigar smoke and benzaldehyde in the second or possibly fourteenth-hand copy. The satisfaction of turning a page, being surprised by the unexpected ending of a chapter and shoving in a bookmark. Wouldn’t the sterile hard edges of a tablet or God forbid a phone take all that away? How could scrolling and swiping compare to turning pages with your fingers? It would be like the difference between eating a steak and looking at the clip art of a steak.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in