I am terrified of the Kindle in the same way my boyfriend is scared of robots. I just don’t trust them. I always have this moment every now and then where I’m drawn in by how sleek and shiny it is, which is dangerous because this is how I ended up with an iPhone. I see them all over now, people using them at the library at school, in restaurants. I feel the weight of whichever two or three books I’m carrying at the moment in my bag and for a second, I wonder what it would be like to have all my books and newspapers in one device. I have to look away as I consider this possibility, a betrayal to every book I’ve read.
I love the physical nature of books. I learned to read when I was barely two and have been lucky enough to have parents who consider books a necessity in the same realm as food and shelter. From story books whose pages I thoughtfully turned in my lap to the novels now riddled with notes in their margins. I love the moment where you’ve read up to a certain point and you crack the spine, the first milemarker in your journey through that book. I own a lot of the books I read, organizing them at times in alphabetical order, by genre, and currently by the color of their spines. Each book brings back the specific memory of when I first read that book and where, how my legs were dangling over a chair or falling asleep, eyelashes against text; a whole life I’ve lived is inside each one.
The same goes for books I don’t own. I got my first library card at age four and it still amazes me that I can go to this huge building and check out as many books as I’d like for free. Not to mention dvds, I can also get those if I want. I like seeing the erased notes people have made in library books and the things left inside, temporary bookmarks forgotten, business cards and photos and the like. You can go to a library and browse books, use the internet, read, do work, and stay all day and no one will say a word to you. If you do need help, it’s available but otherwise, you can be invisible to the world. It’s a haven for those who need a place to keep their mouths shut and let more information in than they let out for the time being.
The Kindle seems unnecessary to my life. For those who say that they use it primarily to read the news, I wonder if they’ve forgotten that they can still read the news on their computers, even on many cellphones now. There are still actual newspapers for those who have forgotten about those as well. The Kindle is attractive and claims to be a convenient way for people to read but those of who read the news and books on a regular basis are doing so already without this device. I also worry about the logic of having my entire library in one device. There is an intimacy that comes from secluding yourself in one book, lost not just in the pages but in the experience the author has intended for you.
Is this a symptom of the times we live in? At almost 23, I can feel that my attention span has grown shorter over the years thanks to the internet and the constant barrage of information that faces me as soon as I open my laptop. I have to tell myself to slow down sometimes, to close the 87 tabs I have open and to really focus on something at length. There seems to be a loss of focus and attention to detail. I know many people who watch YouTube videos endlessly but rarely sit down to watch an entire film anymore. This is similar to reading with people losing patience with a book, and not allowing the story to take form and and come to life. Truly experiencing a book or any art form has been condensed, packaged, and fed to us in smaller portions so we can save room for more portions to come. Yet, are we left satisfied?
Aside from the visceral experience of actually reading a book, I wonder about what will happen to some of the core institutions of our community. Libraries are already hemorrhaging money and jobs, with many librarians I know seeing their hours and benefits slashed. With our entire library in our hands, buying books with one click, what happens to our libraries? I wonder the same about independent booksellers. I have seen two used bookstores in my area close in the past year, unable to stay above water in this economy and also in the face of the Kindle/e-reader onslaught. We can buy our books at home from our computers, from our Kindles, but what of the personal experience of choosing a book? I can think of nothing better than to discuss a favorite writer’s work or a new suggestion with a bookstore employee or fellow patron. Now we choose what we read alone, having no common ground in the things we are filling our minds with.
This is something I miss the most, the thing that worries me the most about the Kindle and even the iPhone that I myself own. I miss seeing what people are reading in public, a familiar book cover catching my eye or one I don’t recognize making me all the more curious. I miss starting a conversation with a fellow lover of Nabokov or Roth, and having that brief moment, that sense of community with others who are allowing their minds to embrace the same kinds of art; even better are the people reading something completely unknown to you and making you seek something you had never experienced before. Now we tap away at our Kindles, our iPhones, each wearing a different case but bringing the same kind of disconnect from each other, an uncomfortable quiet. It’s lonely to be a reader now. I’ll keep my books and read them in public, my nose behind the cover art, hoping another reader will understand my signals and ask if I like what I’m reading, both of us stalwart defenders of the physical experience and secrets only a book can reveal about itself and its reader.
