With my terrible memory, I keep buying the same books.

Bookstores are part of my daily life, but I read slowly. So I often stand in front of a familiar-looking spine, hesitating: Have I bought this before? In the end, I always buy it anyway.

When I get home and open it, of course I already own it. Sometimes, more than once.

As the books pile up, handling them becomes a problem. There aren’t many people around me who truly love reading. These days, people finish a movie in five minutes, scroll past an opinion in ten seconds. Books pile up on Kindles like to-do lists, marked as “done,” without ever being entered.

Somewhere along the way, everyone became obsessed with finishing. Understanding doesn’t matter as much. Liking doesn’t matter much either. Stopping to savor something matters even less.

I find myself wondering, why does no one miss the feel of paper anymore? The sound of turning pages, the weight of a book in our hands, that solid sense of this book belongs to us.

I try to give books away, no one wants them!! I try to donate them, bookstores and libraries refuse!!!

The reasons are practical: systems, approvals, registrations, databases. Too troublesome. Even brand-new books are declined.

That’s when it hit me, these repeatedly purchased books aren’t extras. They’re things pushed out by the times. They’re not wrong. They’re just a little slower, a little heavier, unsuited for a world that demands read faster, scroll faster, move on faster.

But they’re still there. Quiet. Solid. Not rushing us.

Maybe some books keep finding us, not because our memory is bad, but because we’re not ready to read them yet.



—— XC Scribbles · 肆拾陸 XLVI 📚