I fucking LOVE books

Talking about the love of books. With a lot of swearing.

Format doesn’t matter to me (but I love stroking the covers)

In my first post I (briefly) mentioned a thing I have about format. It doesn’t matter to me. I like physical books and e-books and I don’t care how things come to me as long as I can read them, as long as I can sink myself into that world with luxurious abandon.

There are places I prefer one over the other – physical copy is better for reading in the bath, e-books for long journeys – but in general I don’t give a shit how I read.

However. There’s always a however.

I have an almost sexual lust for the smell of paper and the feel of book covers under my fingers.

Seriously. When I’m stressed one of the things I do is go into a bookshop. Just the smell of it, the paper and ink, is enough to help me wind down. When you add the tactile sense of book covers to the equation, I am myself again.

I’m not sure what it is. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve always been a physical kind of person, always affected more by the way I experience the world around me. The warm sun on the back of my neck, the way a flower petal feels (damp, fleshy silkiness) have been easy ways to change my mood since I was a little girl.

Perhaps it’s the memory of that smell, that feeling being with me through some of the most important moments in my life, and e-books are a relative newcomer to my brain. In the same way that a certain perfume always fills me with a contradictory blend of peace, happiness, nostalgia and grief, the physical side of books reminds me of the fact that in hard times they were sometimes my only constant friend.

So, I don’t care about format, but if I’m unhappy and using a book as an escape, I’m more likely to choose hard copy than digital. It’s just who I am.

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