The process of reading a library book last week brought me peace at a time when tranquility had proved elusive.
When I reflect on the many years I spent wandering among collections or anticipating the arrival of the bookmobile, it seems unthinkable that my relationship with library books has lapsed lately. Not that reading itself stopped, but rather the options for content delivery simply mushroomed.
Alexa begins my day with NPR news and weather, followed by a series of quiz questions I enjoy over coffee. Next, I move on to newspapers. We get four.
My phone requires perusal, too. Not only are there 101 apps, but some icons are files of apps grouped together by function. Travel apps, of course, win. I check apps for airlines, ride-sharing, train tickets, and directions.
There are also games to play, emails, social media, and a trove of podcasts. I’m not inclined to walk the dog while reading an actual book, but I do don Air-pods and listen to The Moth, This American Life, or The Future of Everything from The Wall Street Journal.
Wherever I go, in my purse I carry weeks of The New York Times Science Times section that I have not managed to get to quite yet. Sometimes I even pack my e-reader, but to that, I’m not addicted.
Audio books come highly recommended, yet my limited exposure to these have left me wanting. I suppose I really don’t wish to hear a narrator. Sometimes it’s the cadence, other times it’s the timbre of voice that bothers me. Mostly, I like to read at my own pace, fall into a story, and savor.
Our house bursts with books, many left behind when the kids flew the coop, but plenty that we mean to read or simply want around. They’re our friends.
Yet that library book I finished the other day carried a nostalgic power.
I even finished it before it was due. (c)
