The Poor Man's Kindle

I was reading a book I had borrowed from a friend. The massive paperback was old, and worn, and had been loved nearly to death. There was a vertical tear partway down the spine, so I was careful with the book.

But then it got punched in half.

It was questionably my fault, but the book was in my care when it was ravaged, so it was my responsibility to buy my friend a new one. No problem.

I tossed the half of the book that I had read, and started reading the rest. A coworker of mine jokingly told me I should just rip off pages as I finish them, so I'd never lose my page. So I did.

And with that first rip, suddenly, I wasn't just reading the book. I was consuming it. I was claiming the book as irrevocably mine. No one but me would ever read it. As I read more and more and more, the pile of pages at my feet grew as I finished a page and shrrrrrk tore it out and casually tossed it to the ground in front of me. I was eating the book, and the pile of pages at my feet was my defecation, the digested remains of a supposedly sacrosanct artifact. I hurried to finish page after page, just to hear the delicious shredding sound (endorphins!).

It was so. Fucking. Satisfying.

Everyone who walked by me commented. Most asked what I was doing. A few were furious, telling me, "You can't do that!" And I really did feel like I was getting away with a crime. I had always thought that books were holy. Untouchable vessels of sacred knowledge and all that. But that, of course, isn't really true. Books are just a(n arguably archaic) delivery method for information. This book was already destroyed, rendered effectively unusable by being punched in half. So the world wasn't losing much when I tore out a page. But my conscience still didn't feel clean. I felt dirty, and thrilled, and decadent. It was like eating ice cream on the toilet, pushing the pleasure button in my brain despite everything I had ever been trained about what was right.

I finished the book, and I was done with it in every way. It had dwindled in size, diminished to just a few pieces of paper clinging to the back cover. I felt sated, like the soul of the book had filled my belly. I had no desire (nor do I now) to do this again. Once was enough. But it left its indelible mark on me, and I do not see books the same since. I see them with a predator's eye, and I feel benevolent when I finish a page and simply turn it.