I use reference books. Books. It’s an old habit. There was no Interent when I was a kid. We didn’t even have VCRs or Cable. Thus, now, when I find myself in need of a definition, I reach for my dictionary. Like I said, old habit.
But it’s more than a habit. I find comfort in the heft and texture of books. Those physical qualities evoke the whispered, echoing silence and the vaguely dusty paper aroma of the library. There’s something real in the sensation of paper against my fingertips. There’s security in the static layout of each page. Things are where they ought to be — and they stay there.
I’m not here to argue digital versus paper. Each has its advantages. I’m fully aware that .pdfs have fixed pages and that searching on the Internet is exponentially quicker than paging through various books. I’m talking about a holistic experience. You can’t smell the history in a pixel. You can’t thoughtfully trace your fingers across the words on your computer screen (you can, but the smudges!). You can’t contemplate the weight of each book you read on an ebook reader. Sure you have the words and the pictures, but the unique character of the book is purposefully stripped away to make things neat and simple and eerily 1984.
It isn’t only the physical relationships with my dictionary and thesaurus that keep me tethered to them. It’s the way my eyes wander from the word I seek to its neighbors. It’s the serendipitous discovery of words. The rediscovery of words I’ve allowed to fall into disuse. It’s my language: the way I connect with everything that is not me. The printed page makes it feel human and personal in a way that a computer screen simply can’t.
If this is my age or my eccentricity, so be it. I’m not technophobic. I love my computers and the instantaneous nature of the Internet. But when it comes to the English language, I’ll take the print edition every time.
— Mary