The Book Was Better

As one of those weird young people who actually prefers books to most other story-telling media, I’m inclined to disagree with these contemporary doomsayers who warn that the digital revolution signals the death of the book and the end of cinema. Thorburn and Jenkins may be pushing around the idea that new media and old co-exist, and though specific delivery technologies may disappear, the medium they convey will remain. Jenkins and Thorburn use the sound recording industry as an example, demonstrating how the 8-track may be obsolete, yet recorded sound not only endures but thrives. Within the story-telling community, however, I believe the book is king.

Just a week ago, I was walking out of the theater where I had watched “The Help,” which was adapted from the book “The Help” by Kathryn Stockett. Two girls were walking in front of me, raving about the movie, when one of them suddenly turned to the other and said, “Did you read the book?” The other girl said no, and the first girl said, “Oh, you need to read it. The book was better.” I find that ninety nine times out of a hundred, the book is better.

Todd Jambon and I have had this conversation already – he feels that it isn’t fair to compare books to movies because they are two different mediums, but I contend that they are, in fact, two components of the same medium: story-telling. Within that context, the book requires more participation from the reader than the movie does from the viewer. With a book, the reader visualizes everything from setting to costume to body type to facial expression, and also must keep up with the plot. Everything is provided in a movie, leaving the viewer free to explore someone else’s visualization. I suppose, having such an active imagination leads me to prefer books because I feel like I can visualize how something happens better than anyone else, except maybe a James Cameron or Steven Spielberg. Furthermore, a movie is limited by real time, whereas a book can last for an hour or a month, depending on how long the reader wishes to linger.

Lastly, I’ve had a few friends and many family members offer to buy me a Kindle or Nook as a Christmas or birthday gift because they are well aware of my love for books. But I’m not just a fan of the stories contained within the pages; I’m a fan of the pages. I loathe reading off a screen – my attention wanders, I tend to skim, and if the length is formidable I’ll skip the whole thing. I’ve never been intimidated by the length of a book because many of my favorite books could easily be considered tomes. A long book just means I can spend more time in this alternate and interesting reality. In fact, if an interesting book is short, I’m often terribly disappointed that the adventure ended so soon.

But I’m off topic a bit. Back to the pages. My library is a physical representation of my own journey through time. The books on my shelves were acquired through hours of browsing in bookstores. Stacked up alphabetically by author, topic, and genre, these books are like landmarks of my personal geography. They remind me of people I’ve met, places I’ve gone, things I’ve done. A Kindle can’t evoke that sort of emotion. At least not from me. When my eyes scan the spines, I remember that I’ve traveled through space with Admiral Paul Benden, and seen how a scared but resilient people responded to a life-threatening crisis in the far reaches of the universe. I’ve watched a boy grow from a child desperately wanting to please his father to a man whose generosity and quiet wisdom influenced and shaped hundreds of young men and women. I traveled across the Sahara Desert with Captain James Riley in 1815. I was there when his ship was wrecked off the Barbary Coast. I watched as he and his men were captured by nomads and sold into slavery. I pressed on when some of his men, given the choice between conversion to Islam or death chose death. My jaw dropped when he was led by the bones of Jonah’s whale. I attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I wanted to punch Draco Malfoy in the face every other chapter. I was depressed when I had to go home for the summer and wait for J.K. Rowling to write another year. I cried when Dumbledore was killed. Each book is a memento of a great adventure, and I’d hate to consign those memories to the equivalent of a photo album that no one will ever look at, much less notice.

In short, the digital revolution had better not signal the death of the book. I’d take it as a personal insult.