One of the many things I love about bound books is their sheer physicality. Electronic books live out of sight and out of mind. But printed books have body, presence. Sure, sometimes they’ll elude you by hiding in improbably places: in a box full of old picture frames, say or in the laundry basket, wrapped in a sweatshirt. But at other times they’ll confront you, and you’ll literally stumble over tomes you hadn’t thought about in weeks or years. I often seek electronic books, but they never come after me. They make me feel, but I can’t feel them. They are all soul with no flesh, no texture, and no weight. They can get in your head but can’t whack you upside it.
From The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe
I love this description about the physicality of books. Last week I sat poolside and listened to the ocean roaring behind me while I tore through six books. Watching them physically pile up as a sort of tangible recounting of my accomplishment made me happy. The books were practically shouting at me, “This is what vacation is all about!”
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