I have always felt inexplicably at home in the company of books. Walking into a library or bookstore offers an immediate sense of belonging and comfort, as if the stacks of stories flank my sides as protectors and friends. I have shelves in my room teetering under the weight of bindings and pages and deckled edges. Empty fingers fidget and twiddle and beg for pieces of soft paper to flip through, turn over, gently wrinkle, and trace lines. Books have always seemed a treasure to me.

I love reading. We often stress the power of words spoken amongst ourselves, but writings tumbling across a page culminate in absolute magic. I firmly believe in the art of storytelling, and am fascinated by the intricacies of language. Diction, syntax, voice, form- they evaporate from the page and swim between our ears to cast images, emotions, and entire worlds within our consciousness. Reading a book offers enjoyment and thrill, as well as travel and escape into lands otherwise entirely inaccessible outside of the realm of imagination. Reading has left me in fits of laughter, in bouts of anger, in hazey states of confusion, and choking back tears. One little collection of letters and punctuation has the ability to hold such power, and I will never find that anything short of incredible.

I love reading, but to me, an essential element of the experience is the physical book. There will always be the infamous book/e-reader debate, and while I think that reading is always wonderful regardless of the medium, I much prefer the book.

I see books as small, portable, interactive works of art. The patterns of the covers host swirling masses of colors and shapes, or monotone and simplistic designs, or some hybrid of the two, proudly stamping the host of pages with explicit identity. The spine teases interest from the side view, standing prettily among the hoards of others, gently and victoriously snapping with an aching creak when finally split apart and opened for the first time. The pages can be thick or thin, smooth or rough, with typing tightly packed or luxuriously sprawled with large size and open spacing. These pages begin in your right hand, and slowly cross over to the left as you conquer and experience further chapters until finally, progress growing and piling before your eyes, your left hand holds every page but the last. This, perhaps, is my favorite part of reading from the actual book: the satisfaction of traveling through the width of the spine and physically feeling the unconquered territory shrink.

There is undoubtedly design and architecture behind a book’s existence, as well as a process and history behind its coming to you. This ultimately complements the experience, and is something I find lacking in electronic copies. The beauty of a book is something I have a horrendously hard time sacrificing, despite the convenience and practicality of a kindle. It saddens me that bookshops seem to be dwindling these days, and at times I wonder if these beautiful friends of mine are becoming a dying art. Yet, I have hope that there are enough like minded bibliophiles out there who will keep this craft alive, as I will always strive to do.