In a modest sized bedroom that is surrounded by calming white walls decorated with artsy ad campaigns from Hugo Boss, Ralph Lauren, and Gucci, pictures of New York City, and a movie poster of Transformers, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in from the window by the bed, stands a little bookcase by the door.
With a richly dark mahogany color, the bookshelf holds four shelves, all occupied to reflect the personality and life of the person who claims the bedroom as hers. On the very top of the bookshelf stands three photo frames – right, center, left – which hold smiling faces, different cities, varying seasons, and warm memories. Accompanying the frames are two glass figurines of Eeyore and some miscellaneous objects – a watch here, a few random bobby pins and hair bands there.
Over the years, it has evolved. First, there were only two shelves, stacked with children’s books, a big encyclopedia, and two fat volumes – Merriam-Webster’s dictionary and thesaurus. Then, the internet started advancing, and with Google’s help, hardcover versions of encyclopedias, dictionaries, and thesauruses became obsolete, and hence, those volumes disappeared from the bookshelf as they were packed away in boxes and donated to charity. The next few years, different volumes took up residence within the bookshelf. Carolyn Keene’s yellow hardcover Nancy Drew mysteries series – all 56 of the original ones – settled into the very bottom shelf. Textbooks gathered from various classes, organized by subject, established their home in the shelf right above Nancy Drew. As the girl who owns the bookshelf matured, the Seventeen and Dog Fancy magazines in the second shelf were replaced by Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, and Entertainment Weekly magazines, organized by print date. Moving up, on the very first shelf reside the girl’s favorite books to date, all authored by James Patterson and Scott Mariani. Because the shelf represents so much of the girl’s personality and holds much value to her, she makes sure to dust the shelves periodically and keeps all in good shape.
As Ben Ehrenreich states in his The Death of the Book, a book represents “a mountain, a goatskin, a forest, a slab of clay, a knotted string, a blinking screen, a red, a flock of finches.” With the transition from print to digital, books seem to lose that sentiment and value. Instead of symbolizing something that can feel so real, a book is reduced to being a virtual file in a kindle library. It scares me that one day, bookshelves will no longer be of use. Instead, they will be reduced to sitting in someone’s old dusty attic, flattened to shards in a landfill, or hiding, forgotten, in the living room corner, buried underneath some useless rubbish.
(Photo Credit: Metronomico)
According to the LJ Digital tumblr’s entry titled “Writers Caught in the E-Book War,” Jonathan Franzen, a National Book Award winner, told the Telegraph, in regards to e-books, that: “a screen always feels like we could delete that, change that, move it around. So for a literature-crazed person like me, it’s just not permanent enough.” The idea of change is always hauntingly frightening, especially since no one can confidently predict the outcome of changes. Franzen’s thoughts mirror mine. Bookshelves are built for long-term stability. They are utilized to hold books of all sizes, shapes, and weight. There is just something reassuring, sophisticated, and intellectual about the longevity of bookshelves and the volumes they hold.
I imagine it as this: Ten years from now, when I am in my early thirties and have my own house, I will designate one of the smaller rooms on the second floor as my “library.” With a window seat bordered with comfortable cushions against large window overlooking a spacious, grassy backyard with a calming Japanese koi pond (or, if I dream larger, a sparkling blue lake), the room will be walled in by bookshelves harboring all of my favorite volumes. In my leisure time, I can bring a blanket in, settle on the window seat, and sink myself into the literature world, appreciating each time I turn the parchment pages of the books, each time I run my fingers over the black print, and each time I open a new (or old) book and breathe in the scent. Each book is different. Each has its own story to tell, and each has its own personality to share. If I allow myself to forget the value a bookshelf has for me, I would never grow up to have that room; I would only have the fading bittersweet memories of print books and the experiences I have had with them.
(Photo Credit: Intheshadowofyounggirlsinflower)
