My small stone for today! My kindle recently died a death, and although on the one hand it’s incredibly frustrating not to have the instant access and the array of choice, it also reminds me of the physical reality of books in a reassuring way, which this piece celebrates. Photos from the Manchester Book stall on Church Street!
My kindle is dead, the screen is split and the internet tells me it’s been bricked.
Turned to stone. From moving screen that at the press of a button flicks a page, to a solid lump of grey.
I start carrying books. The chunk of the essays in my bag , I sit with it open on the small train table.
They are about the same size, the book’s edges fall off the table.
The poetry books that I balance my tea on are slim, their pages pressed together. One of them has a tendency to flop open, so I keep it at the bottom of my pile.
I open the book at random, watch a world unfold in the space of a page. The weight of it in your hands.
I begin reading from one paragraph, and instantly long for a pencil to score sentences with. To mark, to possess the words, sink into the text till I cannot hear the full stops only the continuing spiel.
The story unwinds like a clock ticking backwards. The twenty minute journey slips away.
Reading the kindle was like watching a torrent of words, a waterfall, slightly out of control. Coming back to books is like stepping into a river you have swum in often, negotiating the ebb and pull of it.
The kindle sits in my overwhelmed bookshelf, a barrage of titles and spines. It holds a different library, where the familiar voices are quiet.