Another concern with the rise of ebooks is the lack of substance of what is bought and sold. Rather than buying or selling an object, ebooks function as a sale of a non-object. There is no thing being sold, merely the information. The text without a body. Of course, in some ways this is the appeal of ebooks. No need to burden the book shelves. No need to carry multiple volumes with you while you travel-- your virtual library is with you wherever you need it. But because books are now no longer an object they are not a good that can be sold by anyone other than the publisher or those privileged sources, the companies buying rights to the ebooks. If you loved a book you cannot lend it to a friend (Kindle has a very complicated borrowing policy which I have never heard of anyone using), and if you didn’t love the book, it is still yours forever. You can’t pass it on to a charity shop or leave it in a little free library. Started using a pretty basic Kindle when I lived in western Europe for three years, and I had no access to English libraries. Instead of purchasing the slow-shipping paper books for a book club I was a part of, I would sometimes just buy the ebook. It was however a very strange thing if someone wanted to borrow the book I would need to give up my whole kindle library, and, (since a kindle is very much intended as a private device) there was something very strange about passing off the record of everything
|Those tear-stains are so good!|
And while I have saved the personal attachment to books as objects for last (it being the most mutable of these defenses for the book as an object) it is also significant. While the distinctives put on books by the publisher are a significant loss to the book as it loses its bodily form, the distinctives and personal details added by the owners and users of the books are even more significant. An autographed copy, a first edition, a scribbled note in on the flyleaf, these all add value to the book for an individual reader, but am also very fond of books with marginalia from unknown sources. This fall I bought all used copies for my class on the 19th century novel. Some inherited marginalia was appalling-- whoever the scribbly first owner of my Balsac was, they clearly did not understand or finish reading Pere Goriot, but the inscriber of my Bleak House? I felt as though I had the half-blood prince guiding my reading, pointing out themes, exclaiming in neat, witty side comments, and I felt this loving kinship with the unknown reader who sold her (his?) book back to the great sea of textbooks. I love rereading books I marked or marked by my friends, or by myself when I was young, and find a strange representation of my progress, being shaped, learning, ingesting the written word. The ways of doing this via ebooks are so clumsy and so technical that the warmth, the immediacy, the sensory closeness is lost.
Books can also be extremely sensual. One autumn morning when we had gotten in the fall art books at the bookstore it was my job to fix up the art book display table. Now, this table was the centerpiece of the store, right underneath a row of skylights, and the frontlist artbooks in the autumn are the publishers gems of the year. In hopes of surging profits with the holiday wave of shopping, and these huge glossy books are all sold wrapped in clingwrap to keep them from damage. However, in order to sell them, it is necessary unwrap one of each book to have it on display. Coursebook rush had just finished and my own ears were ringing with the hundred times I had told students that books “cannot be returned as a new book without the plastic wrap intact,” as I found myself with a dozen books (each costing more money than I would make working that afternoon) ripping them out of their clinging plastic. As I stood in the morning sunlight holding each one, one at a time in my arms, peeling them out of their sheer dressings, seeing the glossy pages fall open to Japanese botanical prints, or a history of fashion full of texture and color, a book on Rolling Stone magazine its cover slightly embossed, I was both nervous and excited by the gentleness and strength required by these volumes. But books are not just a pleasure to the eye and the touch!
luxury candles are sold in the scent of books or libraries. David A. Carter has a pop-up book focused on the sounds of paper as it flips or thuds or crunches. Phones have got to become pretty sexy if they are going to compete with books in the long run.
So what does come next for books? If ebooks are not enough to eclipse paper books what will the buffet of technological offerings look like in the future? My guess is that books will become more multifaceted, that publishers will embrace some of the differences between physical paper books and the other mediums. And to some degree this is already happening. Pop-up books draw attention to the paperiness of books, and the past twenty years has seen innovation in pop-up books like never before. By contrast, digital means of reading are starting to take advantage of the possibilities of that medium. Heuristic Media and Ian McKellen have put out a Shakespeare app which makes reading the play a much more interactive experience. You can read, or have parts read to you, or there are images from productions, graphic novel style art, or even scenes acted all at the disposal of the “reader.” So far, it has very good reviews.
Even more traditional books are taking advantage of the plurality available when published through different forms. Books like A Monster Calls have come out in very different versions in quick succession. The paperback and the ebook have only a few illustrations, but the hardcover is almost a graphic novel, full of double page spreads of moody black and white illustrations. Notably, the fasted growing book industry is neither paper nor ebooks, but audiobooks. Flourishing with the digital dissemination, companies such as Audible, and libraries taking on Overdrive, celebrities reading books, and a new podcast culture, audiobooks are on the rise. Amanda Palmer’s The Art of Asking originated as a TED talk, and became a book, very conscious of its distinct forms. The paper or e-book contained many images, but directed the reader to Amanda Palmer’s website to listen to the music described. At the same time her impressive audiobook (“Written, read and sung by Amanda Palmer”) contained a lot of music, and a great deal of performance even in her reading her own words. Part of the success of audiobooks is this understanding of the ways in which a book may need to change to suit its format. Even stars of the internet (writers of The Oatmeal, xkcd, and Hyperbole and a Half to name just a few) are moving from the screen to the page, translating their writing across mediums, from the new medium to the old. Perhaps this is just to make more money, (they certainly haven’t stopped generating content for the internet) but there is something stable about books compared to the everflickering limelite of the internet. When Allie Brosh talks about her book on her blog, Hyperbole and a Half, she explains that she wanted it to exist on real pages.