Dear Books with Pages:
Before you get all hot and bothered by what I am about to tell you, know from the get-go you are still my first love. I will never abandon you. You will always have a place in my house, in every room, just like you do now. That will never change. Not in my lifetime. Not for me.
You will still draw me with your intoxicating scent and smooth touch. I will still slip you into my carry-on when I travel. When I turn out the light at the end of the day, you will still be on my bedside table, just inches from my sleeping form – often the last thing I touch before falling into dreamland.
Now go back and that read that again. And again.
I got a Kindle for Christmas.
And I actually asked for it.
Dear, dear Books with Pages, hear me now. I am finding out why people love e-Readers. Did you know, Books with Pages, that in a matter of seconds I was holding Anna Karenina in the palm of my hand? Just like that – for free? And that Medici book I need to read for research? In seconds I had it. In my hand. Okay, not for free. But still. In seconds. In less than half an hour I can literally have 50 books in the palm of my hand. It’s astounding.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “Those are not books. Those are words floating around in an invisible world and which can disappear the moment the cyber-world has a major hiccup. Or the moment you lose that little bit of plastic and wires. Or you drop it into the ocean. Or the tub. Or a vat of melted chocolate.”
My beloved, I totally get what you are thinking. I thought that too and that’s why I waited until the end of 2010 to finally own a Kindle.
But here’s the thing, Books with Pages. You are not the paper you are written on. You are not. That is just your outward form. Just like I am not a skeleton wrapped in muscle and skin. The soul of me is like the soul of you. It transcends the physical. You are the words and they come to us in many forms. On paper, on audio, on E-readers, and on the voices of our mothers when they read us bedtime stories. The words stay with us, inside us. And the words that change us stay with us forever. Surely you know pages won’t stay with us forever. And neither will E-readers for that matter. Even our mothers will eventually leave us. But the words that your writers used to give you life will not disappear. As long as there is just one person who remembers the story, you will never disappear.
So you see, dear Books with Pages, your immortality has not suffered. Your beauty has not diminished. Perhaps in decades to come you will become more Art and less Text but that is not such a bad thing. I have always thought your lovely spines looked beautiful on my shelves. And maybe, maybe in centuries to come, you will become treasured heirlooms and museums will honor you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.
But you have not been replaced, usurped, or forsaken.
You are more than your pages.
You are the boundless expression of your creator.
Just like me.
And I will always love you. . .