I’m relatively young and relatively hip, and while I know writing those two things down automatically makes one older and more unhip than they were two seconds ago, I categorize myself this way because what I’m about to say might make you assume I’m 70 years old with a permanent sour face and a “Stay Off The GRASS” sign on my sad, unmowed lawn:
I hate the idea of a Kindle.
I will never buy one, and I can’t fathom why anyone else would, either. At least anyone who works 9-12 hours a day on the computer.
Don’t you people want some time away from that damn screen?! (<–as my mom would say)
Books, while sometimes weirdly expensive, are a luxury. Their pages are perfectly aligned. They have a book smell. Thick ones tell the world that you’re intelligent and focused (or at least good at pretending to be) and thinner ones say that you’re a literary bandit. A Rumi or Kahlil Gibran volume on your nightstand assures your relationships that you are, indeed, a deep and romantic thinker. Conversations are started over books being read in coffee shops and on the subway. Books can be lent or borrowed. Books take up space. They’re real. Something to hold onto when you’re lonely or sitting on a park bench. Books are a nerdy kid’s best friend.
Plus, when you lose a book, you can just go out and buy a new one without wondering if your bank account is going to hate you.
No one was ever asked out for coffee based on what was on their Kindle. You can’t see what that hot, mysterious-looking guy is reading on the subway if he has a tiny electric screen shoved in his face. The selling point of a Kindle is that its lightweight; there’s no feeling proud after you finish page 822 of Moby Dick on a Kindle because there’s no last page to turn. Read more »
