An inexpensive paperback book from a reputable publisher is a small, rectangular, boxlike object a few inches
long, a few inches wide, and an inch or so thick. It is easy to stack and store, easy to buy, keep, give away, or
throw away. As an object, it is user-friendly and routine, a mature technological form, hard to improve upon and
easy to like. Many people, myself among them, feel better at the mere sight of a book. As I line up my summer
reading of thirty-four novels written in the twentieth century, I realize that I have gained so much and such reliable
pleasure from so many novels that my sense of physiological well-being (heart rate, oxygenation, brain chemical
production) noticeably improves as I look at them. I smile. This row of books elevates my mood. The often
beautiful cover of a book opens like the lid of a box, but it reveals no objects, rather symbols inscribed on paper.
This is simple and elegant, too. The leaves of paper pressed together are reserved and efficient as well as cool
and dry. They protect each other from damage. They take up little space. Spread open, they offer some
information, but they don't offer too much, and they don't force it upon me or anyone else. They invite perusal.
Underneath the open leaves, on either side, are hidden ones that have been read or remain to be read. The
reader may or may not experience them. The choice is always her own. The book continues to be an object. Only
while the reader is reading does it become a novel.
long, a few inches wide, and an inch or so thick. It is easy to stack and store, easy to buy, keep, give away, or
throw away. As an object, it is user-friendly and routine, a mature technological form, hard to improve upon and
easy to like. Many people, myself among them, feel better at the mere sight of a book. As I line up my summer
reading of thirty-four novels written in the twentieth century, I realize that I have gained so much and such reliable
pleasure from so many novels that my sense of physiological well-being (heart rate, oxygenation, brain chemical
production) noticeably improves as I look at them. I smile. This row of books elevates my mood. The often
beautiful cover of a book opens like the lid of a box, but it reveals no objects, rather symbols inscribed on paper.
This is simple and elegant, too. The leaves of paper pressed together are reserved and efficient as well as cool
and dry. They protect each other from damage. They take up little space. Spread open, they offer some
information, but they don't offer too much, and they don't force it upon me or anyone else. They invite perusal.
Underneath the open leaves, on either side, are hidden ones that have been read or remain to be read. The
reader may or may not experience them. The choice is always her own. The book continues to be an object. Only
while the reader is reading does it become a novel.
| Jane Smiley |