A Glimpse of Starlight

the smell of old ink

the smell of new paper

the feel of soft old pages, worn to cloth from many fingers rubbing it lovingly

the feel of new, crisp pages, crackling with the promise of new adventures

the feeling of closing the book after you’ve finished, that satisfying yet melancholy thump

the sound of pages turning  as people read around you

the sound of books thumping down on tables, beds, chairs

bookmark collections

matching the bookmark to the book

the sight of stacks of books, a rainbow treasure trove

the sight of a bookmark poking out like book jewelry, whispering for you to dive into the book with it

the state of binding, that rating system of books—the more worn it is, the better it is

the way physically flipping a page makes you pause a little and relish the story as you go

the way the pace of your flipping echoes the excitement level of the story

the way you can tell others have used the book—the creases, markings, dog ears, worn edges—that creates a sense of community even though you’re alone

the ability to mark in it, the underlining like chatting with the author, making you slow down, look at each word, digest it

the markings by others, adding to the story and making you feel like part of a grand history

rubbing fingers over raised lettering on the cover

knowing how far along you are in the story by looking at how many pages you’ve read

thumbing through the pages of a new book

weighing a book in your hands before you begin

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Ebooks just don’t hold a candle to real paper books. They’re awfully practical, and I definitely appreciate them, but to those who predict that someday we’ll use ebooks only, I can say with utter confidence: No way. The magic of paper will never fade.