Nick Bilton gave me a case of the (e-book) blues

E-books are too convenient to go back to the physical bookstore era and if it means living with an eternal guilt trip, so be it.

Something gained, something lost. CNET/James Martin

The fog has lifted making for a gorgeous day in San Francisco. Thank you Nick Bilton for screwing it all up for me.

Actually, Bilton wrote a terrific piece today in The New York Times today, recounting his state of mind after frequenting a clutch of bookstores during a trip to Manhattan. It also left me feeling low as I nodded in agreement as he recounted the bittersweet price Kindle (and other digital) converts are paying perhaps without realizing the cost.

So I went inside, pushing open the large wooden door, which creaked like a prop borrowed from a horror-movie set. As I closed it behind me, a bell on the top dinged. A girl behind the counter looked up, smiled and went back to reading her book. A few customers quietly milled about.

There were, of course, books stacked everywhere. Thick ones. Thin ones. Large and small. I immediately felt a sense of nostalgia that I haven't felt in a long time. The scent of physical books -- the paper, the ink, the glue -- can conjure up memories of a summer day spent reading on a beach, a fall afternoon in a coffee shop, or an overstuffed chair by a fireplace as rain patters on a windowsill.

iPads and Kindles, in comparison, don't necessarily smell like anything.

Those of a certain age can relate. Like others, my regular weekend routine as a Manhattanite once was filled with aimless bookstore browsing -- uptown, downtown, east side, and west -- exploring hushed corners of the big city. This was uniquely delish. There was something about fellow readers bound in a shared pursuit of new authors and new ideas at this neighborhood tabernacle which was a bookstore. And as Bilton reminds us, that experience is fast disappearing, leaving in its stead a replacement that's equally antiseptic as it is efficient :

The e-book shopping experience, while immediate and painless, is about as sentimental as a trip to the family doctor. There are no creaking doors, or bells that announce your arrival so someone can smile at you as you walk inside. There isn't even anything distinctive in the size, shape, or feel of the book you're buying.

It's hard to believe that online book shopping will ever inspire nostalgia. Still, more and more of us are making their peace with the tradeoff. If the price is a permanent guilt trip, so be it. Big, hardcover books eat up too much space; they gather dust; and they are a hassle to move. Give me a few minutes more and I'll come up with a few more.

I'm not going back but I'm not especially proud about sacrificing tradition for convenience. I'll feel guilty about that decision for the rest of my life.

 

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