The decision to buy a Kindle ebook reader wasn’t one taken lightly. In fact, it was made with great trepidation. I am a reader. Should an autopsy be done one day on my deceased remains, I am sure all that will be found is intertwined words—intestines a dictionary, heart an encyclopedia, brain a thesaurus, pencils as bones, lungs notebooks … you get the picture.
I am also, or was until recently, a rabid traveller and my luggage had to be manageable on the back of my 50kg frame. But, the first thing I always packed was my books… always. I can handle anything, absolutely anything, as long as I have a book—to read or write in. Delayed planes, long journeys on buses and trains, meetings not according to schedule, waiting for anything and everything is possible as long as I have a book of some sort to hand. Oh yes, and a pencil or pen. As a writer I make notes—lots of them, scribbling away at something read or something seen or something said that could become part of a piece of whatever, somewhere, some day.
My places of refuge are libraries, book shops—new and second-hand—the book section of thrift stores, book stands in hotel lobbies, bookshelves in people’s homes. Books tell me much about someone—more than their apparel or home.
That smell of paper, the look of the ink on the page, the feel of the square weight in the hand, smelling the words (yes, I do!), cracking the spine of the new until it opens easily and won’t suddenly close when my hand is removed, the decor of rows of books on my desk, next to my bed—sometimes even on my bed, which made sleeping an interesting yet never lonely pastime.
But as I travelled into countries where English books were a rarity and those available were, as my Olde English Teacher from the UK used to say “penny horribles and tickey terribles”—westerns, war, dreadful vapid love-stories, drooling sex scandals, wildly angry clashes of other worlds and planets to the detriment, of course, of the human race, it became necessary to carry my library with me. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with good fantasy or sci-fi—in fact I have many of these beloved authors in my now Kindle rack or on my hard drive—but violence in any form and the rantings, ravings and droolings of disturbed minds is crap and I will not read it no matter how pressing the need for a word-fix. I would rather contemplate the telephone directory, which I have on occasion.
Thus, carrying the array I needed to keep me, if not breathing, at least sane became a weight I could carry, as long as I didn’t need anything else.
And books, good books—poetry, non-fiction, autobiographical novels, stories of science and math, economics, human development, ecology, environment, soul food—I NEED. They are not a want, they are as necessary to me as breathing, often more needed than food and much more than even clothes. However, being seen in public without a book is definitely more acceptable than sans clothing, so some have to be included—if only for the sake of modesty.
Thus the Kindle. At that time, in Laos, there were not other options.
It took a lot of getting used to—this little thing that weighs next to nothing, fits in my bag or a big pocket, remembers my last book, the last page, my highlighting—never closes unless left unattended for too long, falls asleep after I do, puts up with many sudden journeys to the floor and accepts additions without gaining weight or causing much harm to the environment.
In the apartment block where I now live in Bangkok, there’s a small library made up of books left behind by previous tenants. One day the owner decided to do a clean-up and I volunteered my services, of course. It was difficult to stick to the task as I kept getting sidetracked by some of the stock. I couldn’t help but keep three out that I really wanted to read and returned to my apartment with glee. They sat on my desk for a number of weeks until I felt guilty about having them there unopened.
The first time I took one to bed felt really weird. A book! I was holding an actual book! Did it feel good? On the contrary. It felt awkward, clumsy, heavy, the pages kept closing, I had to find something to keep my place, reading at night was difficult as the paper simply didn’t read easily on my eyes and when I fell asleep I was often awakened by a thud to the forehead.
I took this book and studied it from a different angle. What did it mean to me the reader, what did it mean to the writer, to the publisher, to the world, to the planet. And things fell into perspective.
While writers write, there will always be readers… always. And because writers cannot help themselves—it’s a disease—the readers thirst will always be quenched. Publishers? With the turn to self-publishing and electronic books, I can personally only breathe a sigh of thanks to the gods of books that many are becoming extinct and those that remain are more compassionate and discerning. Sure, a lot of garbage is being published unabridged, but that increases the need for perspicacity and making good choices. It ensures wisdom and knowledge thrives and frivolity becomes extinct through a process of natural selection.
And it is this same process that decides the health of our planet. Each book you read, each piece of paper you use—whether to make a note, put up a poster, package a product, or wipe your arse—means thousands of trees were cut down, hundreds of thousands of people around the world have no food as their lands have been grabbed by corporations to plant trees to make paper. Birds go without nesting places, animals without shelter, temperatures rise, water is polluted. All this so we can read.
Sure, that crack of the spine of a new book sounds inviting. But how inviting is the crack of a tree falling? Yes, the smell of ink on paper is aphrodisiacal, but can it compare to the smell of freshly rain-washed leaves? The printed book draws us into a world of dreams and knowledge, but it thrives on the nightmares of villagers and tribes across the world, and people are living in nightmare-land without food or even a piece of healthy soil in which to grow food.
I watched a documentary, Sustainable on Paper, with ever-increasing ire as I realized how my vociferous reading habit across the years had done so very much harm to so many. And I thank Kindle and all the developers of ebook readers, I thank the Internet and all the irritations and aggravations that go with it for giving me the ability, if even in this small number of 1, to do my bit. And I hereby solemnly pledge to never purchase, or ask for as a gift, a printed book or magazine again while I traverse or remain in one place on this planet.
Books are trees with words callously carved on their souls. And in harming one soul, we harm all.
Watch Sustainable on Paper:
