Sure, I appreciate my E-reader. No doubt about it. My Kindle Paperwhite is convenient, the text of any document is easy to read– I can read books in record time. Flipping pages reminds me of water skiing. It’s that fast. I can adjust font, font size, lighting, look up additional information about a book or an author, highlight, use the cloud, subscribe to journals, even review, all from one lightweight flat tablet. And even better, it fits in my purse. Using an E-reader is a no-brainer. Easy as baking an emergency pie!
But I still love actual books for this simple reason — A book engages more of my senses.
It gives me great pleasure to hold a book, to feel its weight and heft in my hands. I love the aroma of paper and ink. I can tell by smell alone if the book is old and well-worn and well-read or brand spanking new. I am comforted by the sound of pages turning pages. The very act of turning pages is comforting, soothing, familiar… in the same tactile way Reiki is soothing. And I get a kick out of using the slate bookmark created for me and me alone by the slate shingle master in Wales.
I no longer buy new books. I don’t even bother to go to bookstores– which once upon a time were my weakness. Bookstores were my weakness. (It’s a pun. You won’t get it but ‘Oscar‘ will understand.) Who wants to spend mega bucks on books? Not me. Not anymore.
My new obsession is my shipping place. I’m there all the time, shipping stuff to scattered family members. The shipping place collects used books. Anyone can take a used book from the shelves. Done. Pay for your shipping, walk out the door with a free book or two. And the owner has an entire wall of used books, some quite old. To even out my karma, every once in a while I leave a few of my gently-used books. Seems fair to me. And since new books appear as often as books disappear, I assume most customers subscribe to the same generous sentiment.
I’ve found some treasures. Been reading up a storm.
I’m deeply engrossed in Ride The Wind, The Story of Cynthia Ann Parker and the Last Days of the Comanche, by Lucia St. Clair Robson– an historical novel about Cynthia Ann Parker, mother of the last free Comanche War Chief, Quanah Parker. Now I’d known the name Quanah Parker for simply ages, but I had no idea his mother was a white woman who’d been taken captive by the Comanche as a young child. She was adopted by a high-ranking family in the tribe. Ride the Wind is 563 pages of sheer bliss. It’s like a chimera of Winter Woman and Follow the River. (Look ‘em up.)
In the queue:
The Pelican Brief, by John Grisham– Grisham is always entertaining. I’ve seen the film, never read the book.
In the Heat of the Summer, by John Katzenbach. This book became the film, The Mean Season with Kurt Russell. I’m very much looking forward to the read.
Pandora’s Daughter, by Iris Johansen. Oooh. Chilling. Looks like loads of suspenseful scary fun.
Don’t hate me because I still love books.