Here’s something about New York you may not have realised: it’s awfully big. And busy. And loud. Bits of it smell puketacular (the Super Tops Awesome Best Friend, being a delicate type, found herself overcome by the stench in one neighbourhood which shall remain unnamed). Which is why, for all these reasons, I found myself several times seeking solace in the cool, quiet calm of New York City’s bookstores.
I have been a lover of books my whole life. Obviously, the stories and ideas contained within are why we choose to read a book at all, but I also love books as more than vessels of content: I love their smell, their texture, their heft; the sight of a well-ordered bookshelf; the beauty of their covers on a coffee table; the gorgeousness of certain fonts …
For a very long time I resisted any notion of owning such an insult to my beautiful books as a Kindle. I read a lot, however, and I generally like to own what I read so I can re-read it at will. And so, a few years ago, my main bookshelf indicated it could no longer cope by collapsing in thunderous surrender.
So, I bought a Kindle.
As someone who loves books but loathes clutter, it was actually a very logical decision. I have dozens of books stored on one slim device that I can take with me everywhere. I simply could not store so many actual books in my house. Rest assured I do still buy actual books, but special ones. And so I did in New York. Barnes & Noble may not be the most romantic or cosy of librairies, but as I entered I felt its reassuring embrace and immediately relaxed. I visited several bookstores, large and small, during our two weeks, and hauled home with me some large and lovely tomes, possibly explaining why I had to pay for excess luggage weight.
Vive le livre.
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