I’ve been reading books again — real books. Books that make you giggle in delight when you first buy them and oh my everything is so clean and crisp and new. Books that a day later you feel slightly guilty that it’s dog earned with a creased spine but you simply had to carry it with you everywhere.
It hurts my hand and I find that I’m not used to turning pages anymore — my thumb keeps thinking it’s has the sole power to press the “next button” and keep me going so much that the rest of my hand seems baffled. Like someone who’s been given the redundancy notice and oh wait — actually you need them again.
It’s fun, like the article says, and I still trawl through book fairs. My room is still spilling over with books. (I’m a bit scared of how much time and money it will take to move them into my new flat). But I haven’t read a real book (without reading the e-book copy first) outside of my house in too long.
I still run out of the house thinking “oh FUCK, I didn’t charge my book!! ARGH!” until I remember, well, duh it’s paper. Don’t need no chargin’.
Click on the link, read the article.