I try, really I do, but I can’t seem to get into a good novel by staring at a computer screen. I’ve done it, but it just doesn’t compare to the real thing. There is something much more intimate and provoking about holding a book in my hands; feeling its cover, running my fingers across the pages, crisp and sharp; the smell of a fresh book that has never been opened, and the potency of the ink when it jumps off the pages; that new smell from brand new books, like cradling a new born in the crook of your arms. So precious and delicate that you almost don’t want to open it. Don’t want to destroy the perfect foundations by bending it’s shiny flaps or causing a crease. In your lap is the weight of your favorite coffee cup, the modest light of the lamp, and a world waiting for you to enter it. To touch and feel the tangibility of book bindings is to go on a creative high of possibilities. All the way down to when you close a book after coming home from the journey and daydream about the revelations and alternate endings. You can end an eBook but you can’t close it. That big red x in the corner won’t do it justice either. I can’t breathe in deep and close my eyes while holding an eBook in my hands. I can’t stare at the front cover as if there’s more to come or fold the pages over. Highlighting isn’t as fun either. Perhaps the best thing about hard-copies is that these books are much more prone to immortality; they will go back for years and years to come. I smile sometimes at the books of my youth that are still found hanging around, too naïve to be read again with the same zeal but too precious to do away with. The satisfied glory of having been read, watch your favorite collection stand and shine beautifully against the backdrop of the book shelf, a time machine right there in your bedroom.