Kindle vs Hard Back - The Argument Continues

I read a new-to-me series on an e-book loan from the library.  Thomas Mullen's David Loogan struggled with identity and loss and truth and justice, while I spent three days complaining about reading on a screen.

I never knew how much further I had to read before I found out who dunnit.  There was no shifting of weight in my hands as I made progress.  I had to make a conscious effort, stop concentrating. click twice, then readjust my eyes and  oh, wait, where was I?

Worse than that, opening the download brought me directly to Chapter 1.  The device didn't need to ease me into the book, to let me feel the pages (Dick Francis's bright white, Joan Didion's vellum like ecru), have me get used to the font.  Furthermore, it decided that I didn't need to see the cover, didn't have to read the copyright material and the dedication and the chapter headings.  It decided I wanted to start reading.

If There Are Words, I Will Read Them could be embroidered on my pillowcase.  I read cereal boxes.  I read the Chipotle bag.  I read the warrants in the School Board Meeting Packets every month, even before I was elected.  I read No Parking signs down to the code numbers in small print on the bottom.  I also read the ISBN information and the publishers' and editors' imprints and the other verbiage in the front of the book.  Apparently, I'm an outlier.  The Kindle app doesn't recognize my pattern at all.

And then there's the end of the book.  I watch the credits - did you walk out before the end of Robert Altman's Nashville?  You missed half the movie.  Did you watch them in Black Panther?  The real ending occurs in the middle of the rolling credits.  There are nuggets of information - stars' children in cameo roles, the real names of the animals used - that make me smile, that would be lost if I walked out before the words were finished telling me stuff.

Apparently, Kindle disagrees.  Before you can get to Acknowledgements, the app switches to the Rate This Read page.  It's a pop-up. Instead of sitting quietly with the closed words cuddled in my lap, I'm jarred out of my reverie with a demand to tell others how I feel.

It's not a book club, for crying out loud. It's me, alone, enjoying the moment.  It's reading for pleasure, for my own sake, without being connected to anything except the words.  Again, Kindle does not agree.

I love the convenience of downloading the books immediately.  I love being able to read on my phone while waiting for a prescription to be filled.  I love looking up unfamiliar words with no more than the touch of a fingertip.  I love making the type ever larger as my eyes tire at night.

Still, I'd rather read a real book.