On a cold rainy day in Evanston, I hid in a corner pew in the library’s periodicals section, reading a novel. I sat in an air of tranquility and listened to the poetic simplicity of Ernest Hemingway flow through my mind. I heard the guns blazing on the battlefield from afar and felt the nurse’s soft touch on my arm. There was something eerie about this moment.
As I read the last line of text, I pressed the “next page” button. The screen flashed and the introduction to the next chapter instantly appeared. I paused before reading on. In a library filled with thousands of books and a section filled with plenty of periodicals, here I sat with an e-reader at hand, perusing works from one of the premier writers of the 20th century.
How the time flies, I thought.
In that moment of reflection, I felt weary with trepidation — all it took was one click.
Back in elementary school, my friends and I joked about flying cars, space travel and anime characters coming alive. Though the thoughts appeared foolish, I realized times are changing. What seemed unattainable as kids become attainable with changing technology. With an Amazon Kindle at hand, I read a novel by the click in the same way a child in the 1950s read the same text with each flip. But the experience feels different. I shudder at the thought.
I rose from my pew and walked over to the comfortable seats in the center of the room. Fortified in between two shelves, I took a seat and sank back. I glanced to my left and settled on an empty seat was The Norton Shakespeare. Its red covering looked intimidating yet scholarly. Thousands of poetic pages furnished within. I grabbed the book and almost collapsed over my seat.
Son of a—I thought.
I flipped through the book. The pages slipped through my fingertips, so thin that one wrong rip could tear beauty. Nevertheless, on the fragile pages rested magic at work, analyzed to the nearest inch, dissected to its threshold and translated to its core. I not only heard King Henry’s St. Crispin’s Day speech play within my mind with fervency, but also felt the knives pierce through my back with Julius Caesar’s betrayal. The sights and sounds outweighed the simplicity of clicking a button. I took the bullet for technology today, neglecting the appreciation for the works before me.
I looked to my right and saw a man, holding what appeared to be a tablet computer with an apple on the back. He wore a white and blue polo, cargo shorts and a pair of Chucks. With his legs crossed, he glared at the screen as if he were skimming something.
“Is that the new iPad?” I asked.
He nodded.
He pressed his finger across the screen. Suddenly, the tablet made the sound of a page flip. Shocked, I stood up and looked over his shoulder at the glossy screen. On the screen was Malcolm Gladwell’s What the Dog Saw opened to the middle of a chapter. The e-book rested atop a table with tabs on the side directing the reader to each chapter. With its catchy interface, it drew me closer and closer to what could be.
But not quite close enough.
As I looked around the library, I noticed the books staring back at me. Their bindings called out to me, asking for another chance — a chance at the past, a chance to experience the novel antiquities of flipping each page with augur anticipation. Despite the fondness I had for my Kindle — and the hope I had for the iPad — I could not imagine a world without actual books. With each second, I heard a page flip. In an instant, I felt like an eighth-grader, sitting on a rock on the Fourth of July, watching the fireworks explode across the sky while I read the fifth Harry Potter book.
Where’s the beauty of strolling through Barnes and Noble? Where would kids go to access the writers that changed the past and those who will determine the future?
I sat back in my seat and flicked the switch atop the Kindle. The Virginia Wolf screensaver vanished and Farewell to Arms reappeared on my screen.
We’ll just have to wait and see, I thought.