Even if you weren’t particularly bookwormish, even if you didn’t grow up to be “a reader”, you almost certainly experienced such joy – more than once if you sucked the marrow of a single favourite book’s bones.
No. No, of course you wouldn’t. Even I wouldn’t, and I was the bookiest of bookworms, someone who would go on to develop this single hobby at the expense of all othersand most of my social development, rendering myself largely unfit for human society by the age of 30.
What always astonishes me, whenever news like this comes out, is the number of apologists and deniers who emerge – like fauns! or the bright-eyed robin who came to watch Mary work, perhaps! or Posy when she jetés like a mad thing across the dance academy stage! – to claim that those who are concerned are Luddites, worrying about nothing.
Oh brave new world that has such morons in it.
Make no mistake: this is exactly where technology is leading us. People (me very much among them) romanticise the novel in the abstract as the greatest way of learning how to live, of exposing yourself to a thousand times more individuals, thoughts, consciousnesses than you could ever otherwise hope to manage during your own nugatory lifetime. And as the nonpareil method of teaching you how language works, of giving you command over it, of allowing you to absorb it and turn it to your own expressive advantage, smoothing, burnishing and deepening the pleasures of life as you go.
There are plenty of studies that show that when we read from books we engage more deeply and retain more information for longer than we do when we read on screens, because the latter are so affectless.
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It’s a distinction most of us instinctively recognise on some level. We keep our Kindles for thrillers or lighter fiction and buy hard copies of the things we know contain treasures that need to be extracted with more effort and attention. On top of that, older adults know from our experience of moving from the paper to digital age how different it feels; how much our own attention spans have been eroded by the endless distractions on offer.
If you want to imagine the future, imagine a pixelated boot stamping on an oblivious face forever. We owe our children more than this.
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