I spent too much money again. On books.
But at least they were books I needed. And it pained me to purchase them. So that's something. Yes? No, you're right, that's probably nothing. That's probably just my subconscious trying to justify the purchase in saying I didn't actually want to make it.
And you're right again. They were school books I bought. Big, fat, and literary (Not to say I don't want to read them anyways).
Classic.
Right again. Most of them were.
I spent too much time looking for ways to spend a little less–but still too much–money on the too many copies listed on my syllabi.
"Why don't you just order the e-books?" You will say, oh so many of you will say. Because you are my friends (most of you) and you care about my economic standing. My subconscious is among you, believe me, asking me why oh why do you really need the hard copy of Mrs. Dalloway? Wouldn't the digital be just fine? Don't you have enough James Joyce to clutter your shelves already? Is another volume really worth the space and money it'll take up?
But here we are, and here I am, shaking my fist in the face of that monetary and spacial anxiety. I will buy the books. I will spend too much money (as is the only acceptable case when in the business of book buying), and I will most certainly defend the necessity of ordering the hard copy.
You know why? Because with a hard copy I can highlight. I can underline. I can flip the pages and tap them methodically as I read. Now, I ask you, can I flip and tap the pages methodically as I read if they are on my kindle? On my computer? No. No I cannot, because if I do, I'll inadvertently turn the pages with my tapping, and I've discovered from experience that computers don't typically appreciate when one tries to flip them.
I like that I can feel the pages, how I can seemingly feel the words inked there, how I can read them the way they were originally written, on paper and not on a screen.
I like how they smell–and how it kind of sounds like I'm doing drugs when I say I like to sniff books.
I like how each one smells, feels, and looks different, how the pages in one copy are thinner or thicker than the last, how they are just slightly yellowed or flawlessly white.
I like how I have to carry them around with me, how I have to remember to put them in my bag before class, how I fret over whether or not I've forgotten them on my rush out the door. The hard copy makes me acknowledge their existence, therefore making me acknowledge the words and the people who wrote them down in the first place. They are personal and I feel I have the responsibility to live up to some unsung expectation they've lain out for me in their physicality.
I like how they are mine and not the same copy two-hundred other students and PDF skimmers are staring at blankly every other day on their computer screens and tablets. I'll admit it: I'm possessive of my books and I do not have any intention of sharing.
Classic.
