On paper books

Today marks the publication of the non-Potter book by author J. K. Rowling, and millions of copies have been sold, the majority being digital versions with paper copies coming in a distant second. The paradigm of the format of the best-seller has changed. Paper is no longer king, and digital e-readers of various kinds have taken the capitalist high ground. Book stores have fewer customers every day, and the paper book industry is dying. This is a shame because although e-readers are easy to carry around, there is some doubt as to the ownership of the digital versions once the owner passes on. In other words, when you die, your library goes with you. You can buy a digital book for another person, but you can’t give them your copy to read. The paper book is such a beautiful invention that it seems a real shame that in ten years no one will be making or selling them anymore. Or will they? Paper books are a basic technology which works even when the batteries in your e-reader or tablet have gone flat. You can read a paper book on take-off and landing without provoking the disapproval and ire of the flight crew. There is something comfortable about flipping through the pages. Perhaps I’m am only nostalgic for a golden age of publishing in which the latest popular titles were stacked in big piles in the bookstores, and bookstores were my candy stores filled with mysteries, science fiction, biographies, histories, novels, and names such as Christie, Heinlein, Heller, Salinger, Bradbury, and Conan Doyle were everywhere. Their books populate the shelves of my house, and any given moment, I can pull one down and start reading. Nevertheless, I had over seventy books on my e-reader this summer as I traveled to Europe and only one beat-up old paperback on shipwreck in my carry-on. Just in case. Paper books are bulky and hard to move. Old books smell a little, but not always in a good way. Yet, I can take out a pencil and underline or add marginalia to my book, and I know you can do something similar with e-books, but it’s just not the same. Your comments in your handwriting six, seven or ten years later can tell you a lot about who you were the last time you read that book. There are books, older titles, that I can get for free and read on my tablet, and maybe I don’t want a paper copy, but I treasure my hardcopy of Catch-22, Watership Down, Ghost Story, Cry Me a River, The Stand, El nombre de la rosa, Going After Cacciato. Am I being irrational about my attachment to these silent sentries who guard the shelves of my house? They don’t feel anything. They are inanimate objects, lifeless, blind. The monster that is the e-book has me torn two ways: one, very convenient, clean, light; two, without batteries you have no book at all, you can’t lend it, it dissolves into nothing as you turn to dust. I have a sneaking suspicion that paper books, real books, will be around for much longer than we suspect, or is this just wishful thinking?

On paper books

Today marks the publication of the non-Potter book by author J. K. Rowling, and millions of copies have been sold, the majority being digital versions with paper copies coming in a distant second. The paradigm of the format of the best-seller has changed. Paper is no longer king, and digital e-readers of various kinds have taken the capitalist high ground. Book stores have fewer customers every day, and the paper book industry is dying. This is a shame because although e-readers are easy to carry around, there is some doubt as to the ownership of the digital versions once the owner passes on. In other words, when you die, your library goes with you. You can buy a digital book for another person, but you can’t give them your copy to read. The paper book is such a beautiful invention that it seems a real shame that in ten years no one will be making or selling them anymore. Or will they? Paper books are a basic technology which works even when the batteries in your e-reader or tablet have gone flat. You can read a paper book on take-off and landing without provoking the disapproval and ire of the flight crew. There is something comfortable about flipping through the pages. Perhaps I’m am only nostalgic for a golden age of publishing in which the latest popular titles were stacked in big piles in the bookstores, and bookstores were my candy stores filled with mysteries, science fiction, biographies, histories, novels, and names such as Christie, Heinlein, Heller, Salinger, Bradbury, and Conan Doyle were everywhere. Their books populate the shelves of my house, and any given moment, I can pull one down and start reading. Nevertheless, I had over seventy books on my e-reader this summer as I traveled to Europe and only one beat-up old paperback on shipwreck in my carry-on. Just in case. Paper books are bulky and hard to move. Old books smell a little, but not always in a good way. Yet, I can take out a pencil and underline or add marginalia to my book, and I know you can do something similar with e-books, but it’s just not the same. Your comments in your handwriting six, seven or ten years later can tell you a lot about who you were the last time you read that book. There are books, older titles, that I can get for free and read on my tablet, and maybe I don’t want a paper copy, but I treasure my hardcopy of Catch-22, Watership Down, Ghost Story, Cry Me a River, The Stand, El nombre de la rosa, Going After Cacciato. Am I being irrational about my attachment to these silent sentries who guard the shelves of my house? They don’t feel anything. They are inanimate objects, lifeless, blind. The monster that is the e-book has me torn two ways: one, very convenient, clean, light; two, without batteries you have no book at all, you can’t lend it, it dissolves into nothing as you turn to dust. I have a sneaking suspicion that paper books, real books, will be around for much longer than we suspect, or is this just wishful thinking?

On a day off

Although most working folks work a lot of days, sometimes having a day off is not an entirely bad thing. I’m not talking about “mental health days”, which I do not recommend if you want to keep that job, but days in which the entire work force is taking off due to holiday or some such similar circumstance. Having a day off is a breath of fresh air. You don’t have to get up early and shave. You can get up late and make coffee, have breakfast, read the paper, take your time, and maybe not shave if you don’t feel like it. In fact, a day off is about not having to do anything you don’t feel like doing. You don’t have to climb into the the hustle and bustle of the mass transit system. You get a break from whatever it is that you do, and you must admit that no matter how much you love your job, sometimes it’s good to have a little break from the routine. You don’t have to be in charge, make decisions, get it done because the office (or whatever) is closed for the day. For a day, time stands still and doesn’t punish you into hitting your marks, sticking to a schedule, making sure that production doesn’t falter. Have a day off is like refilling your tanks–water, gas, air–and starting over. And when your day off falls on a Friday or a Monday your heart just dances with joy. You finally get a chance to break the daily routine and do something different: have a cook out, go to the cabin, fish, ski, have a picnic, visit somebody, go shopping for something other than groceries or underwear. A day off means never having to say you are sorry. Maybe you finally get to try out your new recipe for fish soup? Or you go hiking in the local state park, or maybe you sit by the fire and read a good book as it rains outside. A day off is about the freedom we willingly give up so we can pay our bills, mortgage, car. Perhaps what makes a day off so sweet is that you recuperate the independence that you had as a child to do whatever you want. A day off makes that next Monday morning sweeter still because at least for a moment you were free once again.

On a day off

Although most working folks work a lot of days, sometimes having a day off is not an entirely bad thing. I’m not talking about “mental health days”, which I do not recommend if you want to keep that job, but days in which the entire work force is taking off due to holiday or some such similar circumstance. Having a day off is a breath of fresh air. You don’t have to get up early and shave. You can get up late and make coffee, have breakfast, read the paper, take your time, and maybe not shave if you don’t feel like it. In fact, a day off is about not having to do anything you don’t feel like doing. You don’t have to climb into the the hustle and bustle of the mass transit system. You get a break from whatever it is that you do, and you must admit that no matter how much you love your job, sometimes it’s good to have a little break from the routine. You don’t have to be in charge, make decisions, get it done because the office (or whatever) is closed for the day. For a day, time stands still and doesn’t punish you into hitting your marks, sticking to a schedule, making sure that production doesn’t falter. Have a day off is like refilling your tanks–water, gas, air–and starting over. And when your day off falls on a Friday or a Monday your heart just dances with joy. You finally get a chance to break the daily routine and do something different: have a cook out, go to the cabin, fish, ski, have a picnic, visit somebody, go shopping for something other than groceries or underwear. A day off means never having to say you are sorry. Maybe you finally get to try out your new recipe for fish soup? Or you go hiking in the local state park, or maybe you sit by the fire and read a good book as it rains outside. A day off is about the freedom we willingly give up so we can pay our bills, mortgage, car. Perhaps what makes a day off so sweet is that you recuperate the independence that you had as a child to do whatever you want. A day off makes that next Monday morning sweeter still because at least for a moment you were free once again.

On reading

I was reading Thoreau last night. It was his essay on reading. He thought reading was important, but he also thought that quality reading was more important still. Homer, Plato, Aristotle, that kind of reading. He was criticizing what he saw as “trash” (my word, not his) reading, which includes popular novels and related kinds of reading that he considered a time sink that did nothing to enlighten the hungry mind. Although I understand what he was trying to say (“Read smart stuff and you will be enlightened.”), I am not entirely sure he was completely right. The popular novel has a lot to offer if you know how to choose. Now many popular novels are bad because they have nothing new to offer; they either re-plow old ground or that imitate good novels badly. There are also many kinds of writing, i.e., poetry, essays, plays, letters, travelogues, reviews, opinions, short stories, and novellas, which touch on a multitude of interesting topics in a variety of ways. Autobiography, a notoriously fictional genre, is so utterly problematic that it cannot help but be extremely fascinating. If you limit your reading to Classical literature you will miss a lot about what is going on around you. You won’t read Thoreau, whose short essay on civil disobedience is one of the most important non-fiction works of the nineteenth century. You would also miss, The Scarlet Letter (Hawthorne), the short stories and poetry of Poe, Moby Dick (Melville), The Red Badge of Courage (Crane) or The Awakening (Chopin). If you are reading something, and you don’t like it, set it aside and find something else, but don’t not read something because it’s too contemporary. I would amend Thoreau’s work by saying this: blow up your TV, throw away the radio, move to the country, and renew your library card. Reading always helps the mind grow, learn, contemplate, escape, rebuild, revitalize, renovate brain space. Perhaps this is why the digital age has not yet displaced the book, a centuries old technology that just keeps going, and going, and going…

On learning to read

It was not a simple thing to learn, but it was probably the most important part of my development. I struggled through first and second grades with reading. My mother, bless her heart, is (and was then) an avid reader who could devour a thick novel in a matter of days, if not hours, worked tirelessly with me on word recognition, phonics, and reading. I had a pile of books which she generously read to me, pointing out words I might know, might recognize. We had flash cards. Toward the end of second grade, a couple of “light bulb moments” occurred and reading became a little easier. I was moved up from the second reading group to the first reading group. I had been pulling double duty all year, doing the work for both groups. I wasn’t quite good enough to be the first reading group, but the second group was too easy. My liminal status granted me the rare opportunity of getting double the reading practice, but it also left me a little breathless as well, swapping time between both groups. Mrs. Jensen, my second grade teacher, was a little exasperated by my lack of obvious progress. I didn’t read well out loud, which was the pedagogic technique at the time (1967). Of course, I didn’t understand that reading and reading out loud had nothing to do with one another. My reading comprehension was fine, but my performance in reading circle was mediocre. By third grade (and with lots of practice at home with lots of trips to the local library) my reading was getting lots better, and by fourth grade the mystery was solved. Since then I’ve read a book or two, learned to read another language, and I’ve even written a book, so Mrs. Jensen’s fears about my possible illiteracy were unfounded. Reading has been a great pleasure during these fifty-three years. I haven’t read everything, but I enjoy a good mystery, ironic social commentary, comedy or anything that is just a little off-beat or strange. I’m not a great fan of thick Victorian novels, but some people love them. I have no favorite book to read, and I seldom re-read a book. Poetry is like eating candy. A well-written essay is a feast for the mind. Short stories are like eating potato chips. I’m always willing to give a good avaunt-guard writer the chance to thrill me. “Waiting for Godot” is a tour de force in existential thought. I read all the time. Sometimes I have to read things that don’t thrill me–part of the job–but then again, that’s also a part of what makes reading great: wading through the junk and dross to get to the gems. Loving reading and doing lots of it has brought me success and vocation, and I thank Mrs. Jensen and my mother for their energy, their concerns, and their dedication. It worked. I’m literate.