By Casey Parish
Reading, everyone has their own feelings concerning this pass-time. Some hate it because, for many years, it was forced onto them and, having derived no pleasure from it, they fail to see it as a true form of entertainment. Others merely loathe it… they acknowledge its potential as entertainment but choose not to participate due to the abundance of other distractions that excite multiple senses. There are also those who enjoy it in small doses, they might resort to it if there is a power failure. Then there are the fellows who will set aside time to read in private and experience a thrill from it that borders on the perverse. I belong to the latter school of thought.
People who enjoy reading all long for the prestigious honor of being considered “well read.” This is a confusing term in that, if taken literally, means “to be read accurately and completely.” I recently watched a boxing match where a fellow twisted and drew his begloved fist back just past his face. The other fellow saw this and recoiled into a defensive position to prepare for the coming blow. The defensive fellow deflected the blow and landed a rib-shattering punch to the other fellow’s uhm… ribs. After this incident I believe everyone would have to agree that the fellow whose punch was deflected was very well read. However, amongst bookaholics this term means that a person “has read quite a bit and retained enough of what they read to dispense with quotations at ideal opportunities giving evidence of alleged intellect and culture.” Unfortunately, a fellow, in general, cannot ever be considered “well read” unless he harbors a propensity to frequently wax pretentious under the delusion of imparting culture to those in their vicinity. I myself make some effort to be considered “well read” by placing heady books around that I might have glanced through once….a copy of the Divine Comedy… The complete works of Edgar Allen Poe (of which I have read 3) and the complete works of Franz Kafka (of which I have only ENJOYED one)…I greatly digress.
As a fellow who enjoys reading, I occasionally do it in public places. While reading, I have never bothered anyone with any noise or distracting action. At the most (until recently) curious individual might slightly bend to peek at the title of the book. They then walk away, make a comment, or snear and spit (happened once while I was reading a leather bound copy of “None of Your Business” by Valerie Block.) It is a harmless enjoyable thing that stigmatizes (for good or bad) you in the eyes of those who pass. A fellow who is effectively ignoring everyone around him can’t himself be completely ignored.
Anyway, as I was enjoying St. Augustine’s “Confessions” I heard a snicker from a younger fellow who is sitting nearby. He was looking at me and had a small tablet in his hand. He was wearing thick-brimmed black glasses and a scarf in spite of the fact that it was 85 degrees.
“St. Augustine, huh?” he asked with a smile.
I looked at the front cover of my book as if I couldn’t imagine why he would ask such. “Oh… yes.” I said smiling.
“I have my entire library here.” He pointed to his tablet and his initial smile turned into a sort of smug grin that caused my stomach to turn.
“Oh, really?” I asked… not to imply that I did not believe him… but I was at a loss for anything else to say. The first thing he asked was a question that seemed to attribute some value to the book I was holding, and his following statement seemed to devalue not just my book, but all books.
I panicked and said “I have a book.” And quickly buried my face in its pages in hopes I could block out all external distractions and possible questions concerning the archaic nature of reading an actual book.
He just grinned and walked away feeling triumphant in knowing that he might have brought shame to a fellow the caliber of which would otherwise bring shame to him IF he were of the mind to. This was a fellow who’s ammunition for causing shame on others should only consist of his extensive knowledge of “who played who” on popular television shows. Bullets that most readers of actual books are immune.
The sort of character that had the tablet did not seem the type that would ever give any attention to a book. I don’t want to be crass in judging a tablet by its sleeve, but the only sort of reading I could see this fellow doing was the occasional blog and possibly magazines that deal with talbetesque sort of things. I imagine that his “entire library” consisted of some magazine subscriptions and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo just out of obligation. The fellow had a great deal of nerve to ask “St. Augustine, huh?” in a manner that suggests that he might have read it or associates himself with individuals where passages from the book are often quoted. The long and short of it, I was very put off by such a person belittling me and all other people who have the gall to read an actual book.
I felt compelled to investigate this tablet-based reading trend and found it is extremely popular and has caused many to begin reading text who wouldn’t otherwise. They have begun reading simply because of its current novelty to do so on a small LED or LCD screen. The only reason that “books on television” was never attempted is because television is seen as the alternative to reading. The idea of reading on the very salvation of those who despise reading, yet long for entertainment, is silly and consumers would have rejected it in spite of its novelty. Fortunately, the “tablet” was given the implicit unofficial tagline “you can do anything on a tablet” so the stigma of being an alternative to anything isn’t attached to it at all.
While the tablet is inarguably nifty, people, like myself who are keen on real books, will make attempts to convince the tablet holder that the experience of reading an actual book is somehow superior to reading it on a tablet. I believe it myself but, unfortunately, it is truly indescribable. Without being able to put into words just how reading an actual book is better… it is very hard to make a case for it. I find myself making gestures with my hands that I don’t even understand. Words try to make their way out of my mouth only to finally leave it distorted and often covered in copious amounts of saliva. Those at the receiving end of my explanation attempt are likely put off by not only books, but anyone they see holding a book from then on. My point is valid… it just can’t be put into words.
Now, while sitting in public, if I spy another person allegedly reading a book on a tablet I can no longer continue reading my real book. I daydream of a large bird darting from the trees and grabbing my book and flying away in the distance, to the delight of the fellow with a tablet. “Oh dear” I might say. Then, suddenly, another bird swoops down upon him taking his tablet and he runs after it screaming “my entire library! NOOO!!!”