I don’t agree with all of this, but the forcibly-linear reading experience that screens insist upon seems to be incredibly relevant.
I was recently reminded of my visceral connection to books by a conversation with a friend. Ed, who works in TV, is a Manhattanite like me, and was talking about having to visit his late father’s home on Long Island on one of his weekends off, a journey by public transportation that in the snow, rain, and wind biting winter cold can be what we in the City call a “schlep.” He was going out there to deal with some 3,000-odd books his father had collected over the years. “He was a voracious reader,” said Ed. “I have to figure out what to do with all these books, some of which are quite unusual, like an autographed 1938 travel guide written by Eugene Fodor.”
After a few moments of conversation I confessed to Ed that my knee jerk reaction on hearing of this unexpected treasure trove was to catch…
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