An Ode to Paper Pages
I used to love books.
Now, that’s not to say that I don’t love them anymore, but our relationship definitely needs work. In elementary school, it seemed like I had a new book on my hands practically every week; my mother constantly told me to stop reading and to go to sleep. At age 10, I vividly remember devouring the Cricket magazine (while simultaneously devouring a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich); Thursday half-days meant returning home to a new edition of this beloved treasure. Despite my increasing exposure to the breadth of technology and visual media (notably PBS’s Fetch! with Ruff Ruff Man and the lengthy list of Studio Ghibli movies), the vigor and curiosity of my childhood manifested in the range of paperbound media I hungrily consumed. I lost track of time in pages of print.
Yet as an 18-year-old, I feel more disconnected than ever from my once curious, fearless self. Pages harboring dust on my shelves act more as decoration than academia, and I find myself making empty promises: I’ll start this novel after school’s out. I want to finish at least twenty books this year. Hey, where’s that French novella? I need to read it and tell my teacher about it. The stack of books on my desk keeps rising, yet my preferred choice of relaxation remains constrained to technology. I reach, instead, for Netflix and YouTube, where Sherlock and Suits merrily greet me.
Despite aching to regain the lost stamina of my childhood, I cannot control my addiction to the fast-paced life of the present. It’s even scarier that, in just the past decade, technology’s potential has blossomed exponentially, commanding every aspect of our lives. I wish it were more considerate, though. Let there be room for the slow life. Can we retain some of tradition, instead of moving on so quickly? However, I do applaud technology for integrating new senses into stories; the “three-dimensionalizing” of films adds an extra layer of accessibility and appeal for the eyes that a traditional book cannot offer. Movies and books—there’s something special about each, but the freedom of imagination left to the reader of a book remains, for me, an unparalleled charm.
In an attempt to reintroduce tangible, leaflet media to my life, I recently subscribed to The New Yorker’s print and digital editions. As I found myself visiting the site increasingly often for distinctive opinion pieces, I felt confident that I’d want the physical magazine, as well: perhaps it would be Cricket 2.0. Though I don’t always squeeze out the time to finish all the articles each week, the thrill of anticipation from the cover’s vibrant colors in my mailbox is reminiscent of the slow-burning curiosity that remains alive and well inside of me. On the mobile app, the magazine’s podcasts offer an audio alternative to absorbing media; with it, I train my ears to become better listeners and communicators.
I realize that it’s impossible to halt technology from advancing; the rapidly-paced life will only accelerate. However, it is most definitely within my willpower to instill my own practices of slowing life down—gradually reintegrating crisp, palpable pages that hold and harbor universes of imagination.
by JOY GONG