![]() ![]() It used to be immensely filled with books and patrons in the beginning of each semester. I lamented on the bustling shop it once was ten years ago. Strange as it may sound, it emaciates me as a lover of books.Īnother thing that added on to my sadness was the noticeably empty Lehman bookstore I had the displeasure of visiting. However, when in my hands, all I feel is a flat and dull coldness. Sure, it feels lighter – a form of convenience. Turning pages on a digital device, on the other hand, doesn’t give me the same satisfaction. The weight of the whole body of a book is filling. I miss the feel of a book within my grasp: the texture of the cover and its bindings, being able to turn each single page. ![]() To me, it is more than the memories of reading a book to pass the time that I mourn. ![]() In the introduction of What We Mean When We Talk About Books, Leah Price mentions that when we mourn books, it is really the times, such as riding transportation or waiting in line, that we are mourning (Price, pp. ![]()
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