Of eReaders and iPads

I have to confess I've been bewildered by much of the discussion around eReaders that I have been reading. These analyses seems to centre around the price of e-books and the aesthetics of the eReaders available - and the race to pull in readers, thus confirming one's company as eBook/eReader extraordinaire.

The discussion of cost seems to me to be, in the long term, a non-starter. It seems that various companies - to name no names - think that the way to make folks want eReaders and e-books is to make the books cheap, cheap, cheap. I agree that this strategy might get people on the electronic bandwagon sooner rather than later, but everything I've heard or read suggests that such a model is unrealistic in the long-term - if we desire, as I do, to have a flourishing literary society, with a wide range of excellent, beautifully edited offerings.

I began thinking about e-books, not because I want to save a few bucks (although I love a bargain as much as the next person), but because of an off-hand remark on the possibility of carrying Austen, Shakespeare, and Dante around wherever I went - heady stuff, indeed. A dear friend entered the e-book extravaganza recently (and very happily) with a Sony eReader because he wanted to avoid trucking heavy books around on the subway. He has been cheerfully reading seven- and eight-hundred page tomes ever since.

As I consider my future purchase, however, two largely undiscussed areas take on monumental proportions - space and availability.

The space I refer to is not, as it usually is, the memory capacity of any particular device. It is, in fact, space in my home. I'm actually relatively free of the flotsam of life, and I seldom acquire or hang on to welters of objects long past their prime - I'm downright spare - except for the books. I have shelf-after-shelf of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed two and three deep. I have books to read, to re-read, that I might read littering every surface.

The eReader offers an alternative to drowning in my own reading material- not to mention the increasing challenge of finding any particular volume when I want it. I even recently bought a second copy of a book I already own - something I often do on purpose (it's hard to turn down Pride and Prejudice at $1.99, even if I already have five copies) - without realizing it. Since deciding that I will be acquiring a device very soon, I have begun pruning the contents of my shelves. I just finished the 17th large grocery bag of tomes, and you really can't tell the difference on the shelves themselves. This boon - space - would be the first on my list of reasons to purchase an eReader - long before cheap books, cool design, or the desire to remain on the cutting edge.

Now, having made the all-important decision to take the plunge, how should I choose? Again, for me, the choice is driven by different desires than those I have primarily seen discussed. My priority is not that the device be book-only, large enough for a broadsheet, small enough for my handbag, back-lit, touchscreen, or anything else - although many of these things sound great. My priority is how to get the most books - not at a cheap price - just the most books. I not infrequently order volumes from Britain or Australia because I read a great review and that's where I can get the book. I clearly don't care - or don't care too much - about $9.99 vs. $19.99. I want to be able to get books from as many publishers as possible, and, given my reading habits, access to books that are not necessarily top twenty - although I read those too.

That's where, I hope, the iPad may come in. Because this device is app-driven, unless Apple goes loopy - which is possible if unlikely - the iPad is most likely to accept books from every kind of delivery system. Further, because Apple has a great record for creating universally useable software, updating their system, and providing excellent user support, it is my hope that the iPad will prove as close to universal a reader as possible. That is the reason I will not be buying a Kindle - I like Amazon's list very much, but I don't want to be limited to it - even at $9.99 a book.

So, just to round out my little rumination here, I did wonder at the forced pricing that I see discussed everywhere. This conversation seems to be rooted in the - erroneous - assumption that physical object is a major cost element of a book - it's not. Right now, if I really NEED to read a book that just came out, I swallow the hardcover price (and more importantly the hefty size) and buy it. Otherwise, I wait and purchase it when the trade-paper or paperback version comes out. I actually buy the most hardcover books during winter, march, and summer breaks - as a teacher, that's when I can spend a chunk of time reading, so that's when I buy what I want to read - even if it costs a bit more. Perhaps an answer to the dilemma of when to release e-versions of books could be answered by time rather than format. If I am going to purchase a newly published book, my motivation is time (because I'm impatient or because I, at that moment, have time). I will happily purchase an e-book at hardcover prices to get it when I want it - and to avoid adding another large volume to my overburdened shelves. If I am going to wait for the paperback, I'll wait until the paperback price is available for the e-book, too.

In the end, what I'm suggesting is that I may not be unique. People undoubtedly have many reasons for purchasing eReaders, and they may not be - or may not primarily be - the cost of the book itself. As we realize that we are buying content and not an object, as we as readers lose the erroneous assumption that we are getting less if our book arrives through the ether and cannot by weighed on a scale, we will instead think of the e-book as a wonderful book - that I must read this week, this month, or this year.

And before anyone says that I must be rich to take this attitude, I hasten to assure you that I'm not - although my book buying habits may, indeed, be responsible for that fact!

Blast from the Past

A few days ago, I finally saw Like Water for Chocolate again. Given that I saw the film in the theatre after its original theatrical release something over twenty times, I was surprised to find that, although I recalled it with great fondness, I had in fact forgotten many of its best features.

The film's approach to magical realism, a form that I often find trying and poorly executed, is particularly successful. Like Water for Chocolate is told in a storytelling format by the great-niece of the protagonist, Tita. Tita is thwarted in love by her family's tradition that the youngest daughter, Tita, remain at home and never marry so that she can care for her mother as she ages. In her sorrow, Tita, who was raised in the kitchen of the family ranchero, develops the talent of infusing the food she prepares with her own emotions, not purposefully, but as a natural outgrowth of the significance she places on food as the focus of family events. The magical elements of the tale are told by, or are strongly associated with, the great-niece and her narrative; thus they have the savor of family legend with the accretions of voices and retellings over the generations. We can see a probable reality under the fiction, but we can also see the larger reality that has grown with the telling.

It is interesting to note that, although this is a very sexy film - the titular "water for chocolate" refers to the simmering boil which is required to make the water-based hot chocolate favoured in Mexico and suggests the sexual simmering with which the phrase is associated - there is little actual sexual content and the little that does appear is usually unassociated with Tita and her beloved Pedro until the final scene in the film. So we see Gertrudis, the middle sister, race unclad from the outdoor shower to fling herself onto the horse of a passing federalé, but the one time that Tita and Pedro are together, only Tita's fear of pregnancy alerts us that anything has definitely happened between them.

Of course, the film privileges the view of Tita, whose journal/cookbook has passed the tale to later generations, focussing on the injury that becomes central to her life: her lost love for Pedro whom she cannot marry and who chooses to marry her elder sister Rosauro in order to remain close to her. Our sympathy for Tita is heightened as we watch her determined defense of her niece Esperanza who, as the only child her mother will ever bear, is in danger of falling victim to the family tradition that spoiled her own life. Our association with Tita is so marked - and our belief in her magical abilities so solid - that by the end of the film when we find that Rosaura has died of acute gastric distress after a particularly fiery argument with Tita over Esperanza's fate, we assume that Tita's anger and outrage have unknowingly slain Rosaura. It is only much later that we might consider out-and-out poisoning as a solution - although that might indeed be the real "underpinning" of the magical family legend recounted by the great niece.

It is more difficult to sympathize with Rosaura, the elder sister who marries Pedro and supports the family tradition that forces Tita to remain unwed. Yet, there are scenes, for instance when a heavily pregnant Rosaura is bypassed by Pedro to present flowers to Tita to celebrate her first day as head cook of the ranchero, when we feel deeply sympathetic to her plight. This sympathy is heightened when we really try to see the world from Rosaura's perspective - a viewpoint more in accordance with the setting of the tale than our own modern one. In that light, Rosaura's assumption that Pedro's marriage to her is of more significance than a passing fancy for her younger sister seems reasonable; after all, Tita can never marry, and Rosaura is an excellent marital prospect since she will inherit the ranch. From her perspective - and the perspective of the time - marriage and its ties are what count; love is not a concern when arranging a marriage between families.

The most challenging character is Pedro, since it is often difficult to justify Tita's ongoing devotion to him - especially when she is sought by the more generous and worthy Dr. John. Pedro, far from feeling himself a fool for marrying Rosaura and entangling himself, Rosaura, and Tita in a never-ending and miserable triangle, feels he is self-sacrificing and put upon. After all, he might lose Tita since he is tied to her sister - a tie he created out of devotion to Tita. How could she even think of deserting him for a home, husband, or family of her own? He never considers Rosaura's feelings or pain, and the one time it looks as if Tita might break the impasse by marrying John and leaving the ranch, he seduces her, pouts, and attempts to force her to stay by threatening to reveal her indiscretion to John.

In the end, though, it is the very flaws of these characters that make their ongoing devotion so touching; we cheer when love finally triumphs over tradition, time, and familial obligations, even as we wonder at their blindness.

February Read

I'm not generally a reader of contemporary literary fiction - with a few notable exceptions, such as A. S. Byatt's Possession or Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace; I prefer to let a few decades go by, to read a number of reviews, and generally delay until the novel is no longer contemporary.

However, I recently picked up Lisa Moore's February because, in some way, this novel touched a chord for me. It may have been the fine reviews or the regional setting, but it was probably the focus on the Ocean Ranger disaster that decided me. I do admit to a certain - fascination - with sea disasters. I think it has something to do with the near inevitability of death despite ongoing health and activity. This novel promised to explore the very elements of sea disasters that I find both fascinating and impossible to fully grasp. I was hooked, but I fully expected to set the novel aside after reading a few pages and to wait the requisite decade before picking it up again - at which time I would surely enjoy it.

So, it was much to my surprise that I found that the novel was splendid - right now. It managed to deeply canvass the ongoing effects of grief - for individuals, families, communities - without ever self-indulgently dwelling on that emotion. People carried out their lives, healed - or didn't heal - in their own ways, with the disaster and its corresponding losses underpinning every act both inevitably and silently.

I am now looking forward to reading Alligator, her earlier, award-winning novel. Perhaps I will have to begin reading new pieces more expeditiously - I'm clearly delaying gratification far too long.