I have also been prone to bouts of guilt when using a kindle. It is especially acute when in the midst reading a book, I realize how much I am actually enjoying it. While I still visit bookshops occasionally, I don’t feel quite as safe leaving the house without the e-reader. It has become this dirty little secret, and if books had eyes, they would all be staring accusingly at me right now. I try to justify this by saying that books are the mere physical embodiments of a piece of work, and the content – its soul, so to speak – is what really matters. But the fact is I buy/borrow less books, because of which authors get less compensation. Sadly, the thrill of finally being able to read everything (it certainly feels that way) is wilfully trampling over whatever pained regret I feel.
I wonder if it’s natural, that when we get older, we also become more cautious in decisions and more materialistic. Not in a money-grubbing way per se, but by becoming more status conscious and more driven toward financial security. Some people earnestly seem to be looking to prove something – as if by working crazy hours and being paid relatively more, other things in life will fall in place. I’m not disputing this philosophy (it’s their business, after all). It’s just that I wasn't sure how to react when I realized this little facet of a friend - when someone you thought you knew becomes just that – only someone you thought you knew (if that makes sense?)
Today, I went to visit my grandma in Johor again, where I found an old photo of my mum in her student days (turtleneck sweater, large horn-rimmed glasses etc). In it, she is smiling happily in what looks like her dormitory in Newcastle (thick books on the shelves, an atlas on the wall). But intriguingly, behind the photo is a note from her addressed to my dad, the first part of which says:
“To Chan,
With Warmest (3 degree c) Wishes and Bright (Ahem!) Skies
Always.”
It’s strange and wonderful to know this side of my mum.
