The joy of books

I always carry something to read when I’m out and about. It could be a newspaper, magazine or book. I don’t care — I need something to read. It stops me from feeling self-conscious. I don’t feel alone. I’m not alone. I’m busy — see. I’m reading.

The Kindle was bought for practicality. The free newspapers on the train were not long enough for my hour long commute. I travelled underground so my wifi would only work at each stop. That was until I changed my phone and now I can’t get wifi anymore. Books added weight and took up space in my bag. A Kindle, on the other hand, was light and portable.

My Kindle was my companion on my boring journeys to work. Then someone offered to lend me their book. An actual, physical book. It was a paperback, of average size. Oh how I forgot the joys of turning a page, to visually see how far I was in the book and how much more I had to go. I missed feeling the pages between my fingers.

The second and third books lent to me directly after ‘Actual Bookgate’ were graphic novels. Now, I’ve never read graphic novels before. Like the before, the second book was of average length and of average size. The third book, however, was bigger, thinner and printed on thicker, shiner paper. I’m not sure if it would translate well into a Kindle format.

These books started conversations. The front covers were very stylised. “Ohhh, what’s that you’re reading?” they’d ask as they picked up the paperback from the table and flicked through. To be fair, people do ask what I’m reading when I have my Kindle but they tend not to pick it up.

Home for me is filled with a cat, photos on the wall and shelf of books which are arranged in height order. Like my old CD collection, I love looking at book collection. I like seeing what I’ve read over the years. I even have some books which have been signed by the author. These are the books I would save if my house was ever on fire.

I will go back to my Kindle. The books are cheaper, I can buy them online from the comfort of my home and I have access to a vast range of different genres and authors, but they will never replace the joy of the book.

The books in question:

Alone in Berlin by Hans Fellada

Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

The Complete Maus by Art Spiegelman