A blogging friend of mine wonders if the end of the (physical) book has arrived. He thinks not and I think not. It reminded me of Rushkoff saying we have a choice: to programme or to be programmed. I want to programme me. I want to read a book in bed at night, lie in a hot bath holding a book. I want the book to remember where I read it. I want to remember the book, the very page where I read those words. I want to own the book if I can, re-read it when I want, re-examine the pages I liked. Reading an e-book will not be good enough.
The new bookshelf is still in the form of a pile of wood, a stack of planks on the floor beside the very books that will eventually furnish the shelves. But once the books go onto the shelves, I want to arrange them according to colour: all the black spines together, lined up on a shelf. The white spines together, the reddish spines together. I know my books by their colour. I know them as objects. Beloved objects.
