“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”–from a sonnet by Elizabeth Barett Browning
Oh my goodness, Kindle. My affair with you has been on again/off again. I was highbrow and holier-than-thou.
“Kindles? Oh, I rarely read them. I like the feel of the pages as I turn them. I love the smell of new and old books…I love the smell period.”
I was that person. Also, I was the kind of person who would “go along to get along,” so when someone would say “Oh dear. I would never dog-ear a book. And cracking the binding of a paperback? You’ve got to be kidding? Who does that?” I’d be right along, sniffing my upturned nose.
Well, I’m not a book snob anymore. Yes, when I was young until after college (and sometimes if I can’t find a scrap of paper to bookmark the page), I dog-eared. And yes, thirty flogs with a wet noodle, I still crack the spines of paperbacks. It’s an OCD thing. I break the binding at specific intervals: p. 50, p. 100…It feels like – symmetrical, something I am compelled to do. I also write in my books and underline passages.
Bad, bad me.
Currently, dear Kindle, you hold 2,929 books for me! That’s astonishing. I can read you in the dark, on the porch, long ashes growing forgotten from my cigarette, oblivious of everything except the stray lightning bug that lands in my hair. Even then, unless it stays there, I’m immersed. My actual hard copy books can’t compete. I easily slip you into my purse, so that – if a social gathering gets too intense – I can pop outside and read a few pages, taking myself far, far away.
Sweet, unassuming Kindle, I might surely die before I read all the books you hold for me. If that happens, I’ll request they bury you with me and I’ll finish in Heaven.