Image courtesy of Pixabay.

 

E-books have been presented as the replacement for paper in a more environmentally conscious, efficient future. In the midst of a climate crisis, the e-reader would seem to be the more environmentally friendly option. E-books are more financially friendly, with classics available for free or under £1. You would think that for the thrifty, eco-conscious student, that e-readers would be the way forward. No-one wants to lug their book collections to college and back twice a year, so these books are left abandoned and unused in the childhood bedroom, gathering dust. There is no need to bother with bookshelves when all our favourite books can be accessed with the tap of a screen. Every college student can appreciate the superiority of the PDF or e-book when it comes to studying. It saves time and sanity when you don’t have to leaf through page after page to find that one little sentence you were looking for. Therefore, the e-reader is arguably the better option in terms of both practicality and efficiency. 

And yet, when secondhand book landmark Chapters was threatened with closure in March, students and the wider Dublin community alike were dismayed. Clearly, we have not all thrown our paper books over our shoulders to be replaced with tablets and smartphone apps. 

For me, fooling around second hand bookshelves is the key to inner peace. I find these places to be pockets of calm and peace, and the process to be extremely meditative. The bookshelves in charity shops are often neglected, which is all the better for me. You can find some beautiful vintage items in these stores for bargain prices. You can take many a practical note on your iPad, but that’ll never  beat scrawled marginalia or a folded over page, or if you’re lucky, an inscription which gives you a clue about the life this book had before it wound up in the neglected corner of a charity shop. It makes me think about the butterfly effect, and it’s fun to ponder who the previous owner was and what they thought about the book. Take, for example, the 1924 hardback edition of Emma that I found in a charity shop and bought for £3. Inside the cover, in beautiful cursive, someone had written: “VJ from FJ, Xmas 1924.” This was a thrill to discover. Who was VJ? Were they married, or family, or simply two friends with the same last initial? And what did VJ think about the book? This will always be a mystery to me, and it’s something you simply can’t find in a Kindle. It is hard to form a sentimental attachment to a black slab, but each new book becomes part of a new story, the memory of buying it and the different places you read it in. 

These preloved items can become precious possessions, with sentimental value that you can’t put a price on. Also, on an e-reader you can’t open up Madame Bovary only to find that someone has written “Tracey is a boring old fart” in the inside cover. And what about borrowing a book from a friend, only to see that they’ve underlined some harrowing sentences and subsequently bore their soul to you upon the page? Not to mention that vintage books often come in beautiful designs: despite the warning adage we do judge books by their covers. On a practical eco-conscious note, buying second hand or borrowing from friends means elongating the book’s life cycle, and participating in a closed loop system.

There is something disheartening about yet another facet of our lives becoming digitised. We already spend ages  staring at computer screens or scrolling on our phones, so picking up a book can come as a welcome break. Carrying three books around in your tote bag only to leave them untouched for a month can prove  vital for when you’re on the  Dart or sitting in the sunshine, and throw down your phone in disgust with yourself at the amount of time you’re wasting on TikTok.  

I think the point I’m making is one about human connection and sentimental value. The debate about whether technology helps or hinders genuine human connection has been well-established. Books, whatever their format, present an opportunity for shared interest and discussion amongst people. However, there is nothing like the thrill of discovering inscriptions and marginalia from strangers you’ll never know who lived 100 years before you. Romanticising strangers and nostalgia trumps practicality.