I am in love with a species nearing extinction; books. In my household my mother reads from a kindle, my dad scans documents into the computer before going over them, and even I read ebooks on the computer. Those I read on my computer are for convenience; it is a lot easier to bring a few extra megabytes aboard a transatlantic flight than it is to bring three big hardback books. When I am given the choice, however, I prefer a real book.
I own a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book printed exactly one hundred years before my own birth. As I pick up the book, I will let my hands run over the cover; the smooth, worn cardboa