People can spend their honestly earned money the way they like, obviously. I spend a lot of money on books. I have an insane passion for books, besides for their contents, books like concrete objects I mean.
I’m unable to read anything on those e-book readers or tablets or whatever, you know what I’m speaking off, I don’t know their right name in English either.
First of all it proves that I’m a real troglodyte, but at least I’m not a too stubborn and presumptuous one, because I have tried, before deciding that those immaterial written words deprived me of the subtle material pleasure of reading.
I know, I know…e-books can be stocked in huge quantity into the generous memory of a small iPad (or iPod? You see I even ignore happily and carelessly the difference between them), you can carry your private library everywhere, you don’t need to dust your books and to have big bookshelves to pile them up: it’s all quite true. Nevertheless I cannot live in a house without books mercilessly and randomly piled up everywhere and, even though I hate to dust, generally speaking, dusting my book allows me to have a kind of privileged physical contact with them and perceive a tactile symbiosis, having the impression to take good care of their well-being as well.
Sometimes I force myself to get rid of certain books which I didn’t like that much and, for sure, I would never read anymore. Even in this case I feel a kind of pain in eliminating them, as if they were innocent little soldiers which had done her duty, even though they had never been able to be brilliant heroes.
I have learnt, at least a little, to develop a certain instinct for books which can be meaningful for me, but I still commit mistakes in the delicate field of choice. Sometimes - fortunately it’s rare – I buy a book which I hate from the first pages. I feel immediately a kind of negative vibration. It’s not like the little soldier books I mentioned at all, the disappointing ones, which didn’t leave any impression, neither good or bad on me and I tend to get rid of, after a while to make some places for the new ones. When I start reading a book, which produces an immediate and often irrational sense of reject in me, I must throw it away instantaneously, as if it was something contagious which could infect my library. The intruder must be taken down in the street and mercilessly condemned to the public dusty bin. The last book which had this dramatic fate was one by the infamous Dan Brown http://www.pbase.com/mardoli/image/120719962.
We always learn something worthy from our mistakes. In all cases I nearly never buy a book choosing it from the best-sellers list. I have just come back from Florence and I have been told I should buy Brown’s last “opus”, which is located in Florence and Venice. Oh, never in my life. I have learnt the lesson.
I’m unable to read anything on those e-book readers or tablets or whatever, you know what I’m speaking off, I don’t know their right name in English either.
First of all it proves that I’m a real troglodyte, but at least I’m not a too stubborn and presumptuous one, because I have tried, before deciding that those immaterial written words deprived me of the subtle material pleasure of reading.
I know, I know…e-books can be stocked in huge quantity into the generous memory of a small iPad (or iPod? You see I even ignore happily and carelessly the difference between them), you can carry your private library everywhere, you don’t need to dust your books and to have big bookshelves to pile them up: it’s all quite true. Nevertheless I cannot live in a house without books mercilessly and randomly piled up everywhere and, even though I hate to dust, generally speaking, dusting my book allows me to have a kind of privileged physical contact with them and perceive a tactile symbiosis, having the impression to take good care of their well-being as well.
Sometimes I force myself to get rid of certain books which I didn’t like that much and, for sure, I would never read anymore. Even in this case I feel a kind of pain in eliminating them, as if they were innocent little soldiers which had done her duty, even though they had never been able to be brilliant heroes.
I have learnt, at least a little, to develop a certain instinct for books which can be meaningful for me, but I still commit mistakes in the delicate field of choice. Sometimes - fortunately it’s rare – I buy a book which I hate from the first pages. I feel immediately a kind of negative vibration. It’s not like the little soldier books I mentioned at all, the disappointing ones, which didn’t leave any impression, neither good or bad on me and I tend to get rid of, after a while to make some places for the new ones. When I start reading a book, which produces an immediate and often irrational sense of reject in me, I must throw it away instantaneously, as if it was something contagious which could infect my library. The intruder must be taken down in the street and mercilessly condemned to the public dusty bin. The last book which had this dramatic fate was one by the infamous Dan Brown http://www.pbase.com/mardoli/image/120719962.
We always learn something worthy from our mistakes. In all cases I nearly never buy a book choosing it from the best-sellers list. I have just come back from Florence and I have been told I should buy Brown’s last “opus”, which is located in Florence and Venice. Oh, never in my life. I have learnt the lesson.
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