Just out of curiosity, how many books did you read electronically before coming to the conclusion they are lame?

I was pretty opposed to e-readers before I started using one, but am now a convert. The exception (to me) is books where the design is integral to the reading experience, for example an architecture or design book.

None, actually. But then, I’ve never tried heroin either, and I’m pretty sure it’s bad for me.

Here’s the thing: design is—or at least ought to be—integral to every reading experience. Think of the choices that must be made when producing a book: size, proportions, paper weight, fonts, chapter headings, cover art, illustrations, photographs, binding, et al.

It should go without saying that I’m not a fan of digital music downloads, either. Could it be that (gasp!) I’m just not hip enough? Tell me it’s not true…

Oh you’re plenty hip, Aaron!

But, I also think you should give a Kindle a try sometime. It’s reading a book, not spiking a vein.

I was shocked at how much I liked reading on a device, especially given how much I was prepared to hate the experience.

It’s possible you might be surprised. While I agree that ideally a book’s design should maximize all of the components you list, I’m not sure it works that way most of the time. In my case anyway, I’ll buy the paperback over the hardcover edition printed on thicker stock almost every time. I’m also not sure that for the majority of books it makes that much of a difference. I’d argue that I’m more sensitive to good design than most, yet I just finished reading a Nick Hornby book and the fact that it was in Times New Roman on a screen vs. Garamond on a page didn’t take away from the story. To me, anyway.

Exceptions? Of course. I continue to buy printed books despite access to an iPad or Kindle–in my case architecture, art and design books.

And don’t forget, the design of many e-readers is quite compelling. They’re created with intent and continue to improve over time. Some are clearly better than others. This is true for most things though, including how one book may be designed compared with another.

In the end this isn’t life or death stuff. It’s cool that we have choices, that book sales are at an all-time high and that there are more opportunities than ever for writers.

OK, I need to get to work on a proposal so I can afford to buy a few more books.

And therein lies the difference: For the most part, I’d rather stick nickels in my nose than purchase a paperback.

Admittedly, the U.S. publishing industry isn’t doing books any favors by insisting on shoddy workmanship and lousy design—both of which certainly ease the transition from paper to pixels.

At least there are those who still believe in books as art. Namely, the Folio Society (foliosociety.com), which stubbornly clings to out-dated notions like custom illustrations, smyth-sewn bindings, and purposeful typography. In short: design.

But I guess as long as people are reading, I shouldn’t complain, right?

Do you suppose it’s more a matter of tactility than design? I’m inclined to think so. The e-book is one more degree of separation from reality, one less thing to touch, one less thing to possess and leave behind. (Ironic, really, when you consider that ones-and-zeroes are indelible, after all, and paper can go up in flame.) They signify the end of rarified first folios, lost texts and their rediscovery, white gloves in musty archive rooms. It’s sad. E-books make me feel sentimental and sad.

I think tactility plays a part, certainly. Even something as simple as the heft of a copy of War and Peace, for instance, speaks volumes about Permanent Things. An e-reader? Not so much.

But the idea of design cannot be understated. When I look back on just about any book I’ve ever read—Huckleberry Finn, Moby Dick, The Heart of the Matter, The Hound of the Baskervilles, In Cold Blood—I think of the actual book itself just as much as the words contained within.

Maybe I’m weird, though.