 I'm sorry if I'm posting a day late. My car got towed because my meter expired. Damn it! A book's a pretty thing. That much is sure. Be it leather bound or paperback. The measure of its shape, its sleek contour, and when it's with some friends on shelf or stack, the neatness of the spines all in a row. It speaks to some deep love of sorting stuff. And symbolism. Well, I'm sure you know that this bound paper is metaphor enough for knowledge, research, science, poetry, civilization, if you're of the mind, that language is what forms society. You're watching Thunk, and so I think you'll find are really good libraries very near to being Holy Ground, a reverent place. The one in Cambridge brought me close to tears. And even so, I think we have to face some ugly truths about the written word, and the culture that you'll likely see in comments left below by fellow nerds who find that what I say is heresy. In truth, this isn't more than ink and wood. No magic exists anywhere inside. It's true the ideas may be understood, but who cares in what format they reside? Project Gutenberg's a click away. A Google search is all you ever need to access every word this book might say. And why should I give up my hands to read? I've got a lot of work I need to do, and audible subscriptions aren't too bad. This thing is inefficient, bulky too, when you can fit all this on one iPad. But if I were to set this wood aflame, now I bet I've got some worried looks. The things I've said are still true, all the same. Nothing will be lost but one old book. The words inside are replicated here. Only this copy will go up in smoke. The world will always have a nice Shakespeare, and though it would give some of you a stroke, this object's just a thing. Like every one of these little tachkis behind me. It's mass produced, most likely it was done in China or some other such country, for pennies worth of labor just like those. You wouldn't belly ache about this toy if burned or trashed or otherwise disposed. So why should books be sinful to destroy? The origins of bookish sacredness of the modern form, where everything that's printed on some paper such as this is worthy of both love and worshiping, is detailed in this book. Please check the link. Deidre Lynch's loving literature. It started much later than you might think. 18th century entrepreneurs who wanted to sell books to one and all, spurred onward by the new public domain began to push in ads which you might call romantic love for classics. The disdain of academic readers at the time suggested that a passion of this sort would overtake the honing of the mind to tell good lit from bad. It would in short make readers fans instead of critics. Well, you can see which of those views won out. The disdain of a cannon made to sell has colored what reading is about. But Book of the Month still has a role to play. In the United States post World War II, to sell more books, BOTM would say, it doesn't matter what you read. If you like classics, romance, or technology, then you're a reader. That is just your spark. And for an inexpensive monthly fee, we'll happily supply you with that mark of breeding, smarts, and really the whole brand. Fill up some shelves and now that's who you are. Your own identity. Won't that be grand? Now please sign here and please do press down hard. And so today there is this meme, you know, that hoarding isn't hoarding if it's books. That shelves of objects, more or less for show, should be exempt from condos prying hooks. We think of them as somehow more than things, though they qualify in every way. It's hard to grasp that we're still pulled by strings from ages past, designed to make us pay our hard-earned cash for paper with some marks. No less commercial than a cell phone case. The words themselves might scribe upon our hearts, in which our minds and so on. But to face the nerd rage which would burn me, to burn this. One might think on the Zen cone of Shouju, who when handed the great tome of his old master's teachings, and his master's too, bearing in mind that things are our undoing. He burned the book right there, hand never swaying. His master then cried out, what are you doing? To which Shouju replied, what are you saying? Of course it's not like readings somehow wrong. No one will fault you for your bookish taste. It's nice to have some peers to get along with those whose love is similarly placed. But ponder from whence you get that esteem. Consumerism's very much to blame for why a burning book might make you scream, but shrug if it's a kindle set of flame. The concepts carried here are good to know, but is this bookish holiness debunked? Please leave a comment in the box below, and if you will, let me know what you think. Thank you very much for watching here. Please don't forget to blahblah sub and share, and don't stop thunkin'.