The Revolution Will Be Digitized

Evening bliss-- a mug of tea and the latest Jeffrey Eugenides novel on my Kindle.

Printed books have a dedicated, passionate following that often seems to rival that of digitized books. For the reading public, this passion is derived largely from emotional memories associated with books. As I previewed on Friday with the link to the articulate essay at the New York Review of Books, this week I will be writing from the other side of the aesthetics argument: in praise of ebooks. Forgoing the economic or business arguments in favor of epublishing, it is time to focus on the benefits that the general reader can get out of ebooks.

Considering that ebooks have only risen to popular use in the last decade, I, like everyone else, grew up reading printed books. I enjoyed reading as a hobby and was (and remain) a frequent visitor to the local public library. Memories of my formative years are interspersed with plots from my favorite novels, some of which I read over and over until they became a part of my own past. Having moved away from my hometown and favorite book-reading spots, I look back fondly at those times and places, and I associate that happiness with everything involved in the memories. I remember perusing the library aisles for hours at a time, waiting for just the right book to capture my attention. I think back on the many nights I stayed up far later than I should, turning page after page under a burning-hot reading lamp. And when I visit a used bookstore, or a library, or return to my own bookshelves, it is fun to riffle the yellowed pages of an old paperback, to gaze at a beautiful or funny book cover, and even to smell the mustiness of decaying paper, comforting in its familiarity.

Nevertheless, those memories mean nothing if not for the books—the stories and histories and freely-given knowledge—associated with them.

My battered copy of Malafrena, which I laid out for maximum shame viewing. Note the enormous tear on the back cover, now held together by clear duct tape. Also believe me when I say I bought this book in pretty bad shape as-is because it is long out of print-- I would never treat my books like this.

Libraries can be rather unpleasant, after all, if they’re too crowded or noisy or cold. I often turned down plenty of books that I might have enjoyed because the cover was so horrendous I couldn’t believe the actual book would be any good (witness the impetus for this hilarious website "Good Show, Sir: Only the Worst in Sci-Fi Book Covers"). And that musty, dusty smell and those yellowed pages are actually signs of the damage we have done to these beloved books, now full of bacteria and old water stains. When I pull the sense away from the memory, I strip it down to what I really remember fondly—the book itself.

I didn’t really like my fluorescent-lit college cafeteria all that much, but I find I occasionally dig up pleasant memories of the cafeteria when I think of lingering over The Secret History with a cup of tea after lunch. My copy of Ursula Le Guin’s Malafrena is rather malodorous and hanging on for dear life due to some emergency duct-taping, but I keep it around due to my appreciation of the beautiful story that plays out within its pages. It is the content that makes these places and pages special, not the pulp and glue (and tape) that contain them.

Now that ebooks and ereaders have become so popular, I predict that future generations, including the one growing up now, will have similar sense memories, just of the digital age. They might not think back fondly to the bright bulb of their reading lamp, but instead the warm glow of their ereader screen, perhaps projecting the text of the well-received novel The Hunger Games. They can collect beautiful covers and skins for their ereaders that they carry with them everywhere. Perhaps someday, they will stay up late refreshing their readers over and over again, waiting for their pre-ordered J.K. Rowling book to “magically” appear on their library screen.

The longing for the “feel, touch, and smell” of books is not really about the book content, but about the book object. Not many arguments that “books are going away” have gained much traction thus far in the digital publishing conversation—more and more books are published every year, after all. It is the book object that we will see less and less of, and that is the argument that I see every day in publishing news. So how do we link the appeal of the “book object aesthetics” to the rising popularity of ebooks?

I predict that it will become easier to print on demand. Most best-selling books today are publishing both digitally and in print-format, and perhaps in the future they will be published primarily in digital format with an option to have a copy printed. The technology for print-on-demand is constantly improving, as popular publishing sites such as Lulu and Blurb will show you, and the option has become vastly more cost-effective. In that way, I don’t think that printed books will go away entirely, at least not for the next few generations—if you want a hard copy, you will be able to get one.

On another note, there are plenty of printed books in existence already. As I commented on NYRB, the printed books that you own will remain your own. Your cherished books won’t disappear or be taken from you Fahrenheit 451-style, and as such I think that used bookstores will have a market for some time to come, likely beyond the lifespan of regular bookstores. These books aren’t all going to get sent to the recycling center—you (and I) will have years and years to snap up those funny little 50-cent sci-fi paperbacks that liven up a rainy weekend.

Furthermore, the book-as-cherished-object argument falls flat when you consider the fact that most people do not personally own every book they have ever read. I know I don’t—I have given away far more books than I currently own, for hoarder risk reduction reasons in some cases (yes, I have bordered on bibliomania—it’s a constant struggle) and sometimes because I bought a book, read it, and didn’t like it enough to ever want to read it again. What is the point of requiring all books to be printed if you cannot ever hope to contain all of them? At the same time, I wonder which of those books I might have kept if they had only taken up the space of a scant few kilobytes on my harddrive.

I don’t share a vision of a future where the only books I have are on my (now, admittedly, beloved) Kindle. I see a value in printed books as art objects of a sort; visible dedications to my favorite authors, or souvenirs of memories, or even just as beautiful objects (hardcovers like art prints, and famous editions as prized possessions).

Like my beautiful hardcover of Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution by Caroline Weber. Also fully illustrated with color photographs and with a personalized signature from the author. Deeeeefinitely not giving this one up any time soon.

But as I have loved printed books, so can I love digitized books. To be able to carry a vast library inside my purse, wherever I go, is, to put a literary spin on it, like having a power akin to something out of Harry Potter. When I received my Kindle two years ago, I forgot I was reading text on a screen mere minutes after I began doing so—the technology is sufficiently advanced to have now removed the “glare” of a screen that is the most common complaint for digital text. Now that bookstores are shutting down all around the country, I frequently rely on my Kindle to get the latest books without having to wait for a package or pay a hefty shipping fee. I have even found it easier to read some books on the Kindle than it was to read them in print format—I find myself picking up books like George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series much more easily when they’re on my slim Kindle rather than in a hefty paperback or hardcover tome.

Will I get rid of my beloved old, illustrated copy of Misty of Chincoteague? Not any time soon. But as my personal library grows throughout my life, do I hope I can curate it on my digital readers, that can expand like Mary Poppins’ bag to reveal contents so great it’s difficult to believe they can fit inside something so small and unassuming? Absolutely.