Books

Reading books is a hobby (O.K., obsession) of mine, but what truly intrigues me are the books themselves. Nothing is better than the feel of a book in your hands. Paperbacks are thin, fluttery, and malleable. The filmy cover invites you to open it anywhere, as if the words inside are whispering to be read. Hardbacks are bulky, blocky and solid. Prying them open is like spilling a secret. Once the books are finally open though, a whole new cacophony of senses emerges. First, the smell. Old books have a musty, almost moldy aroma, like walking into an old house. New books smell like paper and ink as if you were opening a recently printed newspaper. At the same time you smell a book, you hear it. Old binding glue creaks like a wooden floor as you flip the pages. The first time a brand new book is opened, you immediately hear the crack of the binding and the crinkling of the creasing leafs. As you look down on an old volume, you see dog-ears or wrinkles or yellowing surfaces. You see coffee rings or mysterious stains or lost bookmarks. You see pictures or calligraphy or rows of meticulously printed black letters. You see clean pages, or ruffled edges, or writing long forgotten in the margins. Books are beautiful because of the way they subliminally convey emotion through how they tactically feel. Books are my passion, and I hope my short essay makes you rethink your Kindle.