There is so much more to the reading experience than the mere consumption of words on a page.
No…. I love me the look and feel and smell of an actual book. My mind remembers these things, the cover art, the heft and sense of the page, how some fall open and give them selves up to you while others can be heavy, cumbersome, high maintenance reads. I remember the print or type face, whatever the right term is, my mind is able to recreate these images and sensations as I recall a particular experience or revisit a favoured passage, reminisce over long, lost lyrics, selected poems.
I have a coveted Bronte book that I love to leave laying about, offering ample opportunity to pick up and touch, open, experience again.
Sometimes all of these many elements converge, conspire if you will, to deliver the whole package. It is then that a sort of magic emerges, infusing every page. Take this example; it actually feels like silk when I pick it up, no shit, real silk and the cover art..... classic, elegant, simple; effectively conveying a sense of mystery. It calls out, from my peripheral, beckoning.
Even the print, I mean I know this must sound ridiculous but it actually supports and envelopes; embraces the pace and tone and rhythm of this story. Call me crazy or trust me, it just all works. Well!
I have never read an actual Arthur Conan Doyle story so I cannot speak to the authenticity of this recreation of Sherlock Holmes. What I can say is that I sure did enjoy this and it feels somehow authentic, in keeping with my already gleaned knowledge of this character. I was swept away to London and 221B Baker Street, to Holmes & Watson and a story that longed to be told………
And tell me, Mr. Horowitz did, never once losing my attention whilst he spoke... I was in an automatic sort of, sensual overdrive, throughout.
That was excellent she said, thank you, I need a smoke.