Don't Come For My Kindle

Picture this: you’re in Rector’s one sunny Saturday morning, ordering a coffee before you hit the library. You turn from the cashier, your eyes widening — who is that?

Sitting in a rather raggedy jumper, curtains falling into his face, he’s sipping his coffee and skimming some great work of literature. You’d like to think it’s War and Peace, but, let’s be honest, he’s probably eating up some Colleen Hoover. Sick of rugby guys, you pluck up the courage to approach this bookish fellow whose sex appeal has skyrocketed with this intellectual streak. But, as you approach, your heart sinks. That’s no ordinary book in his hands. With the sight of that drab, pseudo-iPad, you retch — not a Kindle…

I used to be one of these Kindle-shunning traditionalists. “I like the collecting aspect of reading, of having the books on display,” fourth-year Art History student Daniela Youngberg argues. “Without being able to flip the pages, is it even worth reading?” Others feel that Kindles ruin a time-honoured tradition. “Conservation [of print media] is important,” postgraduate English student Kiera Joyce added. But let’s be real — the Kindle renders print novels obsolete and that’s why people despise it. But why is this the case? Because a Kindle offers everything that the humble paperback cannot. Are we just afraid to let go of the outdated system of print media?

Being a Kindle convert hasn’t damaged my love of reading, but rather encouraged it. The Kindle is a constant companion, thin enough for a coat pocket and perfect for fleeting moments of boredom. Someone mentions an obscure book in conversation? I press the search button and it appears instantly. Pretty much anything out of copyright is free. As much as I like the idea of burying my nose in a yellowing first edition, my back will certainly thank me for refusing to lug around endless course books like a pack horse.

I’d like to assert that in my championing of the Kindle, I don’t mean the ones you could play Angry Birds on, go on a shopping spree, or use like an iPod. I’m talking 2012 hardcore greyscale, like the one I found in my mum’s drawer which ignited my obsession with this fantastic device. The basic Kindle’s simplicity forms much of its appeal. Since you can’t mindlessly scroll on TikTok or flick between Instagram and the Books app like on an iPad, it offers the convenience of a tablet without the added distractions. I’m no scientist, but I’m pretty sure its dull display blitzes the eyes far less severely than an iPad’s blue light does. Additionally, not being visually able to see how far through the book you are is hugely motivating, and a novel’s completion comes as a happy surprise. I’m not sure how I would ever have gotten through Anna Karenina otherwise. Plus, as discovered through a quick Google search, you can get your hands on one for only twenty quid — the original devices being pretty ancient in modern technological terms. There’s no excuse not to give this gateway to endless literature a go. 

Yes, Kindles are a little blocky and a little harder to romanticise. On one occasion, doing a reading at a dramatic beachside event, my Kindle was about a hundred pages out from the one I needed. I had to play off my rapid button-mashing and desperation to reach the right chapter as a moment of dramatic contemplation. And, yes, I’ll admit that I sometimes miss the bragging rights of a meaty bookshelf. In many ways, Kindles may not be able to replicate the charm of a classic paperback novel, but one thing’s for sure: I certainly don’t miss the paper cuts. 

Illustration by Isabella Abbott