Forgetfulness is my greatest enemy, by far. Although I often question my own existence, I am certain that I was thrown into this world for a clear purpose. So strong is this sense of mission, that I sometimes forget that I am also supposed to enjoy those nights when I lie immobile between the pages. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying one’s existence, wouldn’t you say?
I am not ignorant of the ways of the world, either. I have heard the rumours that those hideous newcomers called ‘e-books’ might render my job useless and my existence therefore precarious. I’ve heard about the enthusiasm among certain readers – even some who used to be mine – about the convenience these gadgets supposedly bring to the age-old act of reading. I overheard readers discuss these matters. They seem to think that electronic books are the natural inheritors of my world. That paperless reading is what the automobile was to the horse-drawn carriage. They can’t be more wrong. A byte can read a byte, but a human reader should read a similarly-embodied book. Bodies matter. Although you’re not a bookmark, surely you understand what this means. How can a book without covers be really enjoyed? Or a paperless page?
[last part to follow]