Materiality

I learned a new word the other day – materiality. I got it from A Splendor of Letters by Nicholas A. Basbanes.  The author takes up the question of whether a book is a collection of words that may be presented in any format, or if it’s an object to be respected, even revered.  My edition of A Splendor of Letters is printed on fine acid-free paper.  It has weight. The letters are sharply defined and easy to read. The dust jacket is satiny and pleasant to touch. The picture on it is a vast library of old books. The volume has materiality. 

Books on the computer don’t. You summon them up like insubstantial spirits, and the words appear before your eyes.  Basbanes notes the contrast between turning actual pages and scrolling down.  On the other hand, a book, being material, takes up room.  My space for books has run out. If I decide to keep A Splendor of Letters, something else must go. 

I picked up the book a couple of weeks ago and enjoyed reading it so much I may give it a place on a shelf.  It will have to be dusted from time to time, and there’s no certainty I’ll consult it again.  On the other hand I’ll be able to look at its spine and remember the pleasure it gave me.  The book is a first edition published in 2003. Its description of computers is a little dated.  Basbanes’ latest book is titled On Paper, and I notice that I can purchase on Kindle. If I do, the book will lack materiality. 

Actually I don’t own a Kindle.  My friends, who do, praise them. They say Kindles are great for traveling.  You can load them with a collection of books to read on a plane or train or during airport delays.  I use paperbacks for that.  I buy them at used book sales, and when I’ve read them, I leave them in seat back pockets or hotel rooms. 

I like to read pre-owned books, and I like to pass them on to other owners. I imagine maids or airplane cabin cleaning crews carrying my paperbacks away.  Maybe they’re trashed, but I send them on to take their chances in the world.  Flicker editions don’t end up at used book sales. 

Like Basbanes, I value materiality in books, but I also I admire the internet.  It used to be that only devout students of the Bible could quote it chapter and verse.  Now all you need to know is a half-remembered phrase.  The feeding of the five thousand came to mind.  (I’m a foodie and that’s my favorite miracle.) I Googled “loaves.”  I didn’t even have time to put in fishes because “Loaves and Fishes Bible” appeared on the screen.  A click of the mouse and I knew it came from John 4:1-14. It made me feel smarter than I am.

It would have taken me hours to find that passage with Bible in hand.  They wouldn’t have been unpleasant hours, and maybe I would have learned something along the way.  There is a certain opportunity for serendipity with a material book.  My house was built in 1910 before all this computer business came along.  On the landing of the stairs there’s a built-in bookcase where I keep my poetry.   If I weary during my climb, I stop and pluck a book from my shelf and open it to a page. It’s a habit I don’t want to give up.

The Kindle ad tells me I can access a million books.  I’m tempted by that.  I used to have a dream that I found a door in my house I never noticed before.  I entered and found myself in a wonderful library, and I wandered among the shelves.  The Kindle ad taps into that dream.

 Maybe I don’t need materiality, but I like it all the same.  With books, I’m like my father-in-law, who used to carry a lot of cash in his wallet.  He liked his money close at hand.  I run my hand over my bookcases like a miser fondling his gold.  I’m a materialist and will remain that way as long as I can.  If I go to assisted living or, God forbid, a nursing home, storage space will be at an even greater premium.  Then I’ll settle for a Kindle, provided I still have eyesight and a working brain.