A recent study from linguistics professor, Naomi S. Baron (1), found that 92% of college students prefer reading a physical book than using an electronic device. Most would logically assume that the opposite would be true, especially since millennials are such a tech-savvy generation. Ultimately, the study indicated that there are certain aspects that come from a physical book that an e-reader or tablet cannot replicate.
As a student of literature, I’ve come to favor books for a handful of reasons. The most apparent reason is annotation. I’ve gotten in the habit of marking-up nearly everything I read. I simply cannot annotate an e-book. Until such a time comes, I will likely stick to physical books, even if an e-reader is more convenient.
Beyond practicality, books carry a certain sentimentality to them. Reading a book has a ritualistic and visceral quality that a screen cannot replicate. The challenge of tackling a text that pushes 800 pages is undermined if you cannot feel the physical weight of those pages. The visual progression of a book’s pages is lost when it is reduced to a number on a screen. I read to escape the tyranny of math. The minor mental arithmetic needed to gauge my progress on an e-reader is less satisfying than simply eyeballing my place in a text.
There is also something about the smell of a book that adds to the experience. The ink merges with the paper, which was once part of a living organism, to create that sweet musty smell that so many people love. A books smell is vaguely woody. It reminds us of the connection all living beings share with each other. These former shreds of tree bare the words of one of our fellow humans. A book is more than a collection of words. It is a way in which we connect with each other as a species, as humans.
Needless to say, the connective power of books is somewhat of an understatement, if not a cliché, yet this connectivity is precisely why writing in books has become important to me. Most of my books are my own, but occasionally I will borrow one from someone else. Part of my fondness for Catcher in the Rye comes from the fact that I was reading my dad’s copy. Being able to read his comments in the margins made it feel like we were reading it together. An annotated book lends a second level of connectivity to a text, and that need for connection is part of the appeal of literature.
Aside from their ability to connect us with each other, a physical book always carries with it a set of memories. One of the greatest tragedies of my young life was the loss of my annotated copy of the Ralph Elisen’s, Invisible Man. Not only did I lose a great novel, but I also lost a record of who I was while reading it. I would have loved to have kept it on a shelf with the other important works from my life (Moby Dick will soon be placed on that shelf). A physical book is more than a story. It’s a reminder of where we’ve been, and who has been there with us.
1. A recent study from linguistics professor, Naomi S. Baron (1), found that 92% of college students prefer reading a physical book than using an electronic device. Most would logically assume that the opposite would be true, especially since millennials are such a tech-savvy generation. Ultimately, the study indicated that there are certain aspects that come from a physical book that an e-reader or tablet cannot replicate.
As a student of literature, I’ve come to favor books for a handful of reasons. The most apparent reason is annotation. I’ve gotten in the habit of marking-up nearly everything I read. I simply cannot annotate an e-book. Until such a time comes, I will likely stick to physical books, even if an e-reader is more convenient.
Beyond practicality, books carry a certain sentimentality to them. Reading a book has a ritualistic and visceral quality that a screen cannot replicate. The challenge of tackling a text that pushes 800 pages is undermined if you cannot feel the physical weight of those pages. The visual progression of a book’s pages is lost when it is reduced to a number on a screen. I read to escape the tyranny of math. The minor mental arithmetic needed to gauge my progress on an e-reader is less satisfying than simply eyeballing my place in a text.
There is also something about the smell of a book that adds to the experience. The ink merges with the paper, which was once part of a living organism, to create that sweet musty smell that so many people love. A books smell is vaguely woody. It reminds us of the connection all living beings share with each other. These former shreds of tree bare the words of one of our fellow humans. A book is more than a collection of words. It is a way in which we connect with each other as a species, as humans.
Needless to say, the connective power of books is somewhat of an understatement, if not a cliché, yet this connectivity is precisely why writing in books has become important to me. Most of my books are my own, but occasionally I will borrow one from someone else. Part of my fondness for Catcher in the Rye comes from the fact that I was reading my dad’s copy. Being able to read his comments in the margins made it feel like we were reading it together. An annotated book lends a second level of connectivity to a text, and that need for connection is part of the appeal of literature.
Aside from their ability to connect us with each other, a physical book always carries with it a set of memories. One of the greatest tragedies of my young life was the loss of my annotated copy of the Ralph Elisen’s, The Invisible Man. Not only did I lose a great novel, but I also lost a record of who I was while reading it. I would have loved to have kept it on a shelf with the other important works from my life (Moby Dick will soon be placed on that shelf). A physical book is more than a story. It’s a reminder of where we’ve been, and who has been there with us.
