Pox on the Kindle

A pox on the kindle.
I love to read, and others I talk to, who also love reading, say they love the Kindle. "I have 150 books right here. I don't have to go anywhere for another read."
Well, pishaw. I always have at least 3 books with me, one in my purse, maybe two if I am near the end of the current read; books in the truck, suitcase, car. Lots and lots of books.

Today I just purchased two books, one published in 1896, the other, 1897. How exciting to hold a book of poetry in my hands, that was written, and published over 100 years ago. The deckle edged pages, yellow with age, spotted by finger oils, and food. An old piece of newspaper tucked between pages, brown with air exposure, has stained the pages with shadows of itself. Amazingly much of what was printed 100 years ago is still pertinent, poetry still rings true, political warnings are just as relevant today as they were back then, which to me, makes it all the scarier.

The love of the written word, to me, is something you fell when you turn the page, caress the cover, enjoy the flow and meanings of each sentence. That is part of the joy of reading, the tactile senses that are aroused. How can you achieve reading nirvana with a kindle? You can't. All you can do is read. I suppose that is OK, but why settle for just a read when so much more is out there?

Using a kindle (or other such device) is like using flickering pieces of orange, blue and red paper in your fireplace instead of a real fire. What's the point?

Eventually I may break down and get an electric reader, but I will always have real, hold in my hand books.