Jayne Dowle: End of the line for ‘real book’ readers?

She told Yorkshire author Joanne Harris that she fears children are neglecting traditional books in favour of technology. As a mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, this will be a subject close to her heart. As she is 87, we can hardly expect her to be cutting edge. Yet she will strike a chord with many as she adds her voice to the debate: what is the point of real books in a world increasingly dominated by e-books?

I’m with Her Majesty on this. For me, proper books are a last bastion of my upbringing. I just don’t want to let them go. I will collect them as long as I have space for bookshelves. A house without books is an empty house. I’ve still got all my childhood favourites, those gateways to other worlds far away from my little life. Indeed, I’ve kept almost every book I have ever had. Even my hated Anglo-Saxon primer from university, one of the many titles which have made me cry.

I do lend out from time to time, but have never had a major cull. It pains
me to see a book go. It’s like saying goodbye to an old friend. My collection continues to grow. I can’t come back from a charity shop, car boot or school fete without some random title I’ve found. And these days there’s plenty to choose from as callous e-book converts chuck out their treasures. The popularity of e-books has rocketed; sales went up by a whopping 134 per cent last year, and the UK market is worth £216m, according to the Publishers Association.

I understand how e-books have given a much-needed boost to the industry – and made quite a few authors richer than they ever imagined too. And I respect everyone’s right to buy a small piece of kit no bigger than a mobile phone, download as many titles as they like, and carry it in their pocket for convenience. Personally though, I simply cannot bring myself to purchase any kind of e-reader for my own use.

That’s because I love the look of books. Their covers. Their smell, whether it’s new fresh print or second-hand musty. I want books. I crave books. I arrange them into categories like a mini-library; fiction in the living room, reference in the study, biographies and poetry and everything else on the shelves I had specially constructed in the dining room. I accept I might have something of a slight obsession.

Scrolling down as if reading a particularly long email or text message just doesn’t have the same appeal as opening an actual book. I’m no technology refusenik, so I’ve pondered why I feel like this.

Spending most of my working hours in front of a screen is a major factor, I think. The last thing I want to do in any free time is to switch on another one. I want to escape and rest my eyes. Also, I feel guilty about my neglectfully digital attitude towards music and photos. I can’t remember the last time I bought a CD, as all the music I listen to is now on my iPod. I have hundreds of photographs in my smartphone. To my shame, I hardly ever get around to uploading them onto my computer, never mind printing out the best and putting them in albums. By turning my nose up at an e-reader, perhaps I’m trying to make amends.

I’m also attempting – and failing – to set an inspiring example to my children. I read them bedtime stories from the moment they slept in a cot. Yet neither is particularly interested in actually reading books. They see me read. They see the packages from Amazon and the bulging charity shop carrier bags. They see books all over the house, yet still they can’t see the point of picking one up for themselves.

I buy them books. We choose titles together, visit the bookshop, discuss the kind of things they might like. I talk to them about the books I have read and how they have shaped my life. Even so, it pains me that one of my own childhood favourites, Clive King’s Stig of the Dump, still lies unturned on Jack’s bedside cabinet three years after I gave it him for his eighth birthday.

It worries me that they spend so much time on their iPads, although I know that such innovations empower creativity in ways I couldn’t even dream of as a child. I am not sure what else to do. I wonder if the Queen might have any suggestions? I didn’t think I had much in common with Her Majesty, but it seems I do. And this proves the point I want to make above all, that proper books spark conversations, prompt debate and encourage us to share our opinions. However surprising these might be.