Book nerds unite

My germs and I stayed home today. It seemed like the smart thing to do. And thanks to a bunch of extra sleep and a chance encounter with my neighbour who suggested I try this, I actually feel a whole lot better tonight. (Ever since I wrote this article, I can't bring myself to take over-the-counter cold meds that dry out my whole system. Sure my symptoms are temporarily masked, but the dehydration leaves me feeling like hell. The new method proved much more effective. My neighbour - who claims to have not had a cold in 20 years - also told me to only eat and drink lukewarm things. But that seems totally crazy to me.)

Anyway, now I'm feeling fairly human and it's Friday night. And instead of having my fun night with the girls, I'm home alone. (The DP is out with some guys, because the girls were supposed to be here.) I figured I might as well do laundry.

As I think I've mentioned before in this blog, there is a big bookshelf full of books to take down by our laundry room. You know, people leave some and then people take some. Mostly it just seems like books people have abandoned when they didn't have time to make a trip to goodwill before they moved. That would explain the really old psych 101 textbooks. Overall though, it's a fascinating collection. Lots of mysteries, a number of Harlequins (Including a couple from the "Dangerous Men" series. I don't get the bad boy fascination at all.), a book about baseball by the dad from Mr. Belvedere.

Every time I browse through the selection while waiting for the elevator, it makes me think about why people buy books. And what people's books say about them. And how much I enjoy the flirtation I can have with books from the library. No long term commitment required. (Although I do feel guilty, since I realize that writers need to make a living, too. And I'm not helping them by reading their books for free. But one day I promise to buy lots and lots of books once again. Cross my heart.)

I like what my bookshelves say about me, even if it paints a picture of who I was circa 2000. I like that my love of Can Lit is highlighted, even if I've secretly been overdosing on chick lit of late. And my geeky music theatre history buff persona is out in the open for anyone who happens to look for it. (The stack of Original Cast Albums isn't far away, either.) The DP's shelves are wonderfully diverse, full of reference books of every sort.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere coherent. The congestion has apparently gone to my brain.

But last week, once on the subway and once at choir, I saw women reading on this. And I didn't get it. First of all, I had no idea what they were reading, which was strange. I know we're not supposed to "judge a book by its cover," but I love having brief exchanges with strangers over a shared literary experience. When Harry Potter was just becoming a big thing, I used to feel a kinship with other adults carrying around the latest tomb. It was good to know that if we got trapped in a tunnel together, we could discuss whether Voldermort is actually part of Harry's soul.

But beyond my needs, I didn't see how these electronic devices were proper substitutions for an actual book. What about the feel of the paper? What about the dust jacket blurbs? What about the fancy endpapers and the beauty of the signatures lined up along the spine? Because not all books are just words on paper. Imagine trying to read Generation X on one of those thingys! How would they create the asides in the margins? Or what about the beautiful sketches in some of the chapters of Fall on Your Knees that hide secrets of their own? Books are more than just arrangements of letters on paper. Books have a feeling about them.

Don't get me wrong - my back would probably thank me if I stopped carrying around books everywhere I went. But I'm going to risk a little pain for a whole lot of joy. I like to live dangerously! (Just not with dangerous men.)

Vive les livres!

Total debt: $1400 and a bit
Spent today: $9.50 (A brief walk to the drugstore and for a wee treat to soothe my sick body.)