To E-read or Not to E-Read? That is the Question.

“What is the most precious, the most exciting smell awaiting you in the house when you return to it after a dozen years or so? The smell of roses, you think? No, moldering books.” - George Bernard Shaw

Ah, yes, a new book. You know how it is when you get yourself a new book, find a quiet moment in your otherwise busy schedule, pour a hot cup of tea or maybe a glass of wine, and curl up in a cozy tangle of blankets.  You open the book for the first time, maybe casually flip the pages to observe some pictures tucked away in the middle of the book, check out the author’s bio in the back and, if you’re like me, put book to nose and take a deep inhale.  Ahhhh..... Settle in now. You’re about to get lost for a while. But wait a minute. Let’s observe this moment from a second lens. Yes, yes, new book ... hot cup ... or wine ... yes, yes, cozy ... quiet moment ... open book. Ok, stop right there.  

With the new surge in e-readers such as the Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble’s Nook, readers have been given more than just another technological gadget to add to their repertoire — they’ve been given a whole library at their disposal with the click of a button and the promise of a credit card charge. Amenities such as bigger print and alternative offerings like music and game downloads sweeten the deal a bit. If you’re stuck on a word as you read, simply highlight it with your finger and a definition will pop up for you. Interested in something you just read? E-readers allow you to investigate a subject further with access to the Internet; once you’ve uncovered what you want, simply go back to reading. Did I mention all this is nestled within a light, compact screen?  

I know. It’s all so modern and efficient. We get what we want when we want it, damn it. And yet ...

I can’t help but think, as convenient and comprehension building as the e-reader is, that something is amiss. What we lose in the sterilization of text through the birth of the e-reader is the physical presence of the book itself and the relationship that develops between reader and text. This relationship is a sensory one in that it engages not only the reader’s mind as he/she reads, but the physical touch of finger to page, the sound of a crackle in the bind, the whiff of aging paper yellowed in spots, the soft creases left on certain loved pages that perhaps were lingered over not just with eyes but with a fingertip. Yes, these are readers who love books. They are lovers of books.

In this type of relationship between reader and book, the reader does not mind the heft of text for it serves as a reminder of the author’s labors to create it. Furthermore, the book itself does not mind who loves it — it is, in essence, a polyamorous lover — and quite willing to move on to another when the time is right. A book who has been loved dearly shows it through the palpable signs of wear: a loose bind, a torn page or two, a weathered cover. Yet the book does not mind such imperfections and nor does the reader. Both have been enriched, you see.

Fans of the e-reader will scoff at this relationship between reader and paper books. After all, they might argue, isn’t it the words that you read that matter, not the vessel in which it’s shaped? True. French literary critic and semiotician Roland Barthes (1915-1980), in a section from his work Image, Music, Text entitled “The Death of the Author” states that “a text’s unity lies not in its origins but in its destination.” What Barthes means here is that once a writer puts pen to paper (or finger to keyboard), the writer no longer exists and, in his/her place, is the birth of a new entity: the text. The library of texts that is offered at our fingertips (literally!) from the e-reader has shifted the importance of text that Barthes argues happens when the author “dies” to the reader. Now, it is the reader that has the power and the text, well, the text is one among many. Ho hum. Been there. Read that.

So, where does this leave us?  I suppose it’s inevitable that we shift from the death of the author to the death of the text, giving sole reign to the reader; after all, it is the reader who stirs the commerce pot by paying for all this new technology that caters to our need to get things quick, efficiently, and with lots of options to choose. However, I still linger in the library, hovering over the titles. I feel a sense of peace at a bookstore, among the hard copies and beautifully illustrated covers.  I don’t think I would get that same feeling among a stack of Kindles or Nooks. It’s a bit like attempting to eat the image of an ice cream cone on a computer screen.  

Call me old-fashioned.