To feel the heft and grain of the paper. To scan the off-white pages with its black, entertaining type. To smell the musty old pages of a 20-year-old tomb. To hear the thick tissue bend and rub turning a page giving a sense of progress. To taste the author’s words on my tongue after completing the last chapter. To literally digest the allegory not to mention the feeling of being alive that a tongue paper cut gives. To taste the satisfaction of finishing a good book and then deciding on a place of honor on a bookshelf.
There is nothing like propping yourself up in bed and opening the woody essence of a book to read. Nothing helps me relax more than feeling the weight of the book on my chest as a member of my race decides to share their imagination, observations and feelings between pages covered in a nicely-designed font. Grabbing a book and headphones has been the way I’ve unwound since I was in my shy teen years. It’s home base. It’s my deserted island. No one but me and the world the author creates in my mind.
Technology is cool, but I still can’t get behind curling up in my Snuggie with my iPhone Kindle app. It feels cold and empty like what I’d imagine how the writers of The Soup feeling if ever Lindsey Lohan were to die.