I want to like our Kindle, but I’m hopelessly addicted to real books

The Amazon Kindle was released on November 19, 2007. A little tablet full of countless books you can take with you anywhere — it was a cool idea then, and I suppose it’s still a cool idea now. Over the years there have been a bunch of new versions. Amazon updated theirs, and other companies have released their own versions of what is now known as an e-reader.

My wife’s got one. She just bought it a few months ago. She wanted it because she was sick of looking at her phone when nursing our daughter in the middle of the night. It’s worked well. She hasn’t been scrolling; she’s been reading instead.

Sometimes I like thinking about my kids coming across my books when I’m old or dead and gone and finding these little things I’ve written.

I’ve held hers and played with it a little. It’s very cool, and I want to like it. I want to load one up with lots of books, read it on the airplane or right before I drift off after midnight with all the lights off in the bedroom, and join the future with all other fellow e-readers (the people, not the object).

But I just can’t; I like books too much.

Judging covers

I like the way the real pages feel on the pads of my fingers. I like how it sounds when I flip the page. I like to fold back the edge and mark my spot. There’s something about the smell too, especially the old books. You know that smell, don’t you? If you put your nose near the inside of the binding and sniff, you will get it. It’s the faint scent of a college library and an old house.

I love the covers of paperbacks and how they change over the years as new editions are released. I most particularly love the old(ish) ones most. I can always pinpoint the decade based on the fonts and colors. It’s funny how deeply infused a book is with the aesthetic sensibilities of the decade in which it was printed and just how easy it is to discern when one was released.

The 60s were simple and modern. The 70s had loopy fonts with lots of brown, greens, and yellows. The 80s were colorful with floral patterns, some neon, and sharp lines. The 90s were classy and simple with understated serifs and an air of sophistication.

Paperback delighter

One of my favorite things to do is lie in the hammock on a Saturday afternoon reading. A small, flimsy paperback in my right hand, two fingers on the inside holding the pages open, and three others on the outside for support. The summer breeze, the leaves on the birch above, the ropes of the hammock on my back, and a little paperback.

I love to write in my books too, mostly the more intellectual ones. I underline sentences, bracket paragraphs of importance, and write things in the margins. They are things I want to remember. Even if I don’t know when I will come back to the book again, I want to make a note in the event I do. Sometimes I like thinking about my kids coming across my books when I’m old or dead and gone and finding these little things I’ve written. Maybe they will want to read what I wrote; maybe they won’t.

I’ve heard that we don’t remember words we read on the screen as much as words we read on a page. I don’t know the science behind it, but I feel like it’s true — or at least it is for me and my wife. I asked her what she thought as a newly minted e-reader enjoyer, and she said she agrees. She said it feels like she remembers ever so slightly less. Like it doesn’t stick quite as much or like it just doesn’t go deep enough into her brain.

Slightly foxed

The books on the e-reader remain perfect forever. They look the exact same on every single device. In the event the device falls in the lake, you might be out $200, but soon enough you’ll have a new one, and all 500 books will appear on that little screen just as they were before.

Real books don’t stay perfect for very long. The pages get bent, the binding gets broken, the margins are full of ink, and the edges of the pages yellow as the years pass. The more we read a book, the more we know a book, and the more beaten a book becomes. Old floppy paperbacks that look like they’ve been through a war are coveted in the same way leather bags with beautiful patina are.

I want to like the e-reader. I want to join the future. I would feel so futuristic and so efficient with one in my hand. But I can’t, and I won’t. I like the physicality of books too much. I like the wear they have; I like the time they show; I like the fact they tell a story of who and where we were when we read them.