I have been bashing my Kindle bit lately. Not on purpose, of course, but by accident, repeatedly. I’ve dropped it on countless occasions, each time drawing in my breath, silently praying that it will survive and thanking the cover which protects my device in the hope of the Kindle’s survival, and, perhaps more importantly, the continuing of my reading.
The Kindle is not my primary format for reading, but it does play a vital role in my literary cycles. This is mainly due to the vast array of free extracts and, more importantly, classics which I know I can both browse and own without paying so much as a penny. That much is key.
However, the pure, physical and quite possibly tea-stained book still holds place in my heart. After all, I still use a fully functioning library and have a small family collection which I like to dip into, not to mention the insecurity I feel every time I carry my Kindle in my bag (“Is it still in my rucksack? Perhaps I left it back there. I’ll just check my bag for the seventeenth time this hour…”), and the aforementioned tension when I drop it. These problems will, of course, wear away with time, but, having had it for over half a year now, I can only wonder how long that will take.
For, as we should all know, reading and, indeed, any form of recreation should be consumed without responsibilities. You should not be worrying about this or that or what if or maybe… It is, after all, the book that really matters. Until then, I suppose the Kindle will never really take over my reading habits completely, books free or not. But, man, am I glad to use it still.