Thursday, September 13, 2012

Book Sex; or, How I Learned to Love the Spine

I bought a book the other day.  Not just any book.  A book printed on paper.  And (And!) I did it at a book store.  I put on some pants, drove my car, and interfaced with a (smarmy) human while exchanging money and smug/annoyed looks with each other. (Sir Sweater Vest didn't convey with my choice of reading.) Viva, sociedad!

If you're a frequent flyer here at Capitol J (those of you who are still hanging around) you know that I got a new job and this new job allowed me the freedom to stop using Metro and buy a fancy new car to get to work every day.  Ending my tumultuous association with Metro means minimizing my need for an e-reader (in my case a Kindle).  So I woke up the other day and said to myself, "Do they still print books on paper?" I had to find out!

The texture of the paper feels strangely wooden and dusty to my sophisticated fingers.  The words near the inside edge of the spine are often difficult to see without bending the spine and spreading the delicate material to its breaking point.  Oddly, when I put the down it wants to stay open, refusing to close without the help of a weighted object like a brick or spare tire.  And the smell... it's like what I imagine the basement of a brown paper bag factory to smell like.  (Yes, I'd like to have sex down there - not because the smell makes us horny, but because I'd one day like to say 'Yes, I had sex in the basement of that brown paper bag factory.' as I speed by in my fancy new car.)

Anyway, what was I saying?  Right, physical books.  The paper. The smell. The touching and rubbing and caressing.  Since I'm probably the only person who has any right to make the comparison given that I spent many years reading e-books on a Kindle, I will hereby officially say that the experiences are different.  You're welcome.