The Printed Word

I watched a movie last night. It was released in 1998. You may have heard of it, it called ‘You’ve got Mail’ and it stars Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

For those that have been living under a rock for 13 years and may not have seen it, it’s about two people who meet online and fall in love despite not knowing each others names, meanwhile in the real world they do know each other and only ever really exchange cutting remarks as they are competitors in business. She own a small book store that specialises in children’s books and service (she knows all of her customer’s names), he a mulit-millionaire that own a chain of book superstores that offer books at a cheap price, but little in the way of service or knowledge about books (think Borders). Of course, as with all romantic comedies, it turns out well in the end.

Apart from the sound of dial-up internet, which I had almost forgotten, the movie got me thinking about books and where they are heading.

I’m sure when Nora Ephron devised the tale, she had no idea that in 2011 book superstores would be closing because people had stopped buy books made from paper and had switched to electronic tomes. No everybody of course. I still love the feel of the paper and board in my hands, the smell of the ink on freshly pulped wood. I know it’s frightfully un-PC of me, but I like books.

I enjoy spending time fossicking the shelves of second hand book shops for that illusive find. Being surrounded by the mustiness of the years of thumbing the pages have seen. The paper of varying thickness; tissue thin in wartime to save resources, sturdy and wrinkle free in the 60s when nothing needed to be saved, including love. Foxy spots of yellow on the pages and inscriptions of congratulations, happy birthday and ownership; you read more than just the story in print. Sometimes you find added bonuses between the pages; a theatre ticket, a train ticket or postcard. These items tell you even more about the previous owner.

With an electronic book you can make notations and highlight interesting passages, you can turn the pages and you can, or course, read it. But you can’t feel it, smell it, and love it. You can’t take care not to crack the spine, you can’t inscribe it as a gift and you can’t pass it on.

I hope books don’t disappear in my lifetime, after all where would the girl of the world be without pearls of wisdom like ‘Linda Learns to Type’ by Patirica Baldwin written in 1961. What will the world do without tales of young ladies aspiring to be private secretaries?