I love books. In our home, I arrange them by height and colour — a system that drives my husband crazy.
He prefers a library approach: find a book using the Dewey Decimal System, or at least group them by genre.
No.
It’s a design feature.
It must look nice.
I still love books. I just don’t seem to read them anymore.
Many of our books are well travelled. We always intend to tuck the i-things away and switch our brains to the escapism and imagination the printed word promises.
It never happens.
The heavy books are removed from the suitcase and placed either on the hotel bedside table — to be ignored later — or carried down to the pool or beach lounge chair, where they rest beside the holiday cocktail of the day.
Unfortunately, text on a beach no longer involves a page-turning thriller. It’s about thumbs, notifications, and the quality of the Wi-Fi connection.
Printed books feel like the last refuge from being online — from the lack of privacy and the constant, exhausting diatribe the internet brings.
I invite strangers into my life daily: Instagram, Pinterest, Facebook. It’s worryingly addictive.
When my step-daughter turned eighteen, I gave her a card and a gift, and then — over pancakes at breakfast — sent her a Facebook message wishing her a happy birthday.
Why I felt the need to prove to the internet that I know and love her is beyond me.
But I can’t deny that it’s a thing.
I miss reading.
I can’t remember the last time I finished a book.