Why Hardcover is the New Vinyl
Yahdon Israel on the Irreplaceable Magic of Tactility
Heading home on the train from class one night, a college friend recognized me and walked over. We did what many New Yorkers do when they see a familiar face in transit: played the situation up like it was something wanted rather than something that could be done without. I told my friend it was good to see him. He tried to remember the last time he saw me. We asked each other about old classmates, what theyād been up to since graduationāand all the other mundane small talk you make when stuck on a train car. Then, looking down at the black leather Polo duffle stationed between my legs he asked:
āWhatās in there?Ā A body?ā
āBooks.ā
He thought I was being sarcastic so I knelt down and unzipped the duffle as if I was trying to sell him something on the low. āSee? Books.ā I was hoping this would be enough to end the conversation, butĀ it was just beginning.
He asked if the books were for class. I told him they werenāt. He asked if I was selling them. I told him I wasnāt. He asked why I had so many.
āBecause Iām readingĀ them.ā
āAll of them?ā
āYes.ā
āWhy carry them all?Ā Why not just get aĀ Nook or a Kindle?ā
IĀ stared at him for what felt like two stops before I realized the train was actually stuck between stations. SeeingĀ that he was sincerely curious, and knowingĀ that āThereās train traffic ahead of us, weāll be moving shortlyā meant weād be stuck there for at least another 15Ā to 20Ā minutes, I decided to answer. A little bit out of boredom, a little bit out of exasperation. But whenĀ I began explaining I realized that I had few answers for him.
With the hopeĀ I’d find my wayĀ to thoseĀ answers I didnāt have, I started with the ones I did. Despite claims thatĀ technology can bringĀ us closer together, thereās always been something about screensāwhether theyāre sensitive to touch, stylus, or voice commandāthat feelsĀ impersonal to me. Maybe itās because no matter what you do on a deviceāread, watch movies, porn, text, snapchatāthe device itself never changes. The screen is always there, a barrier between you and that thing you want to touch, that thing you want to be closer to. But itās the things we can feel that connect us. Those connections are what make us real to each other.
This is why I carry so many books in my duffle: I want to feel as connected as I possibly can to the world around me. Having all that weight, the weight of so many books, reminds me of this. It reminds me of the burden of the body, and my responsibility to carry it. The weight also reminds me that Iām holding upĀ more than just myself, but others as well. On any given day I canĀ have four or five books in my bag. And while it mightĀ be easier to carry all these books on a device, I fear doing so will come at the expense of forgetting these things. TheĀ weight keeps me grounded. It reminds me that instead of turning up and tuning out, I should be looking to open up and turn anew, as I would with the pages of the many hardcovers I carry with me.
Thereās something gratifying about being able to underline a sentence or write a response in the margin of a book, knowing with certainty that it will be there later. I canāt get that guarantee from a phone. My data couldĀ be hacked, a new upgrade couldĀ wipe itsĀ memory, my battery could die mid-sentence and causeĀ me to lose everything Iāve typed. They say that what goes up into the Cloud must come down, but ātheyā canāt always be trustedāleast of all with the things I value most, my books.
Before the duffle bag, I once bought a copy of Margo Jeffersonās On Michael Jackson on Nook. IĀ already owned a paperback copy, but I decided to buy the digital version to see what ātheyā had all been saying about technology making my life easier. Within two days I’d forgotten my password, unable to remember which character I had caps-locked and where the underscore went. When I tried reconciling this minor mistake, I was greeted with a security question I didnāt even remember answering: āThe name of my first dog? The fuck? I never even had a dog.ā I called customer service and waited for close to 30Ā minutes as theyĀ verified my identity andĀ reset my password. When I finally got back into my account, On Michael Jackson was no longer in my library. I had to download it, again. Swiping my screen to page through the digital copy, I looked for traces of my original interactions with the text, but nothing was there. It was like I had never read it.
That same night I went to the Strand and asked, out of pettiness, if they had another copy of On Michael Jackson. I wasnāt expecting them to have it, but I wanted to prove that what had happened with my Nook would never happen again. If they did haveĀ it, I would own two copies of the same book. Much to my surprise, I was handedĀ a copy of the bookĀ thatĀ looked nothing like mine. Suddenly, I began to understand what music lovers must feel like when, after spending hours digging through crates at hole-in-the-wall record stores, they finally locate that 12ā vinyl they never thought theyād find: I need this.
Of course, youĀ could buyĀ aĀ record like that on iTunes, or stream it onĀ Pandora, Tidal or Spotify, but it’sĀ a deeply satisfying experience to hold something in your hands that you actually went to look for. To know that few people will ever appreciateĀ what you went through to get what you now have. Thatās how I felt holding that first edition hardcover copy of Margo Jeffersonās On Michael Jackson. I need this. More than need, I deserve this. Of course it was true that the paperback had the same text, the same revelations on the insideābut sometimes whatās on the outside matters too.
It mattered to me that the hardcoverās sleeve was white with embossed silver lettering I could feel with my fingertips. It mattered to me that, if I wanted to, I could remove the sleeve and I’dĀ still seeĀ the grooves of thatĀ letteringānot on the cover, but on the spine. And it especially mattered to me that this was a first edition. I may haveĀ been late to the party, but I hadn’t missed it altogether. Though I loved thatĀ my paperback featuredĀ the top half of a young Michael Jackson peeking over the bottom cover of the bookāhis fro providing the backdropāit didnāt carry the same weight. It didnāt feel as real. I could bend it; I could fold it; I could do too many things to it without ever understanding what I had done. But I was consciousĀ of that hardcover from the moment I touched it. I was aware of its weight, its burden, and the responsibility it demanded of me. And I bought itāfor $10.89. I couldāve picked it up at Amazon for less. I couldāve borrowed a friend’s copyĀ and just not returned it. Hell, I couldāve stolen it from a library. But it wasĀ the search that made it mine. It was the search that made it worth it.
Whether in a duffle or a tote, I carry a lot of books in my bag because Iām always looking for more weight to carry, more reasons to feel, more reasons to touch, and more reasons to connect.
As the subway conversation with my friend came to an end, I realized that my books had achieved this, andĀ I knew that his questions had beenĀ worth answering. They just came at the expense of missing my stop.