Colm Toibin, an Irish novelist, once delivered a story about observing a Cantonese man for long, who was sitting on a Kowloon pavement. He was busy reading a book. The man’s face was stern with concentration, and his fingers tracing the line being read. At times the expression would be disturbed in frustration at his progress.
Finally, the reader looked up at the sky, while his face was beaming. It does not matter whether: was because of a sudden joy in the act of reading, or revelation from what was written, or delight in how the story resolved. The point is that he was in possession of something deliciously private, a connection between him and the writer, between the real world and the world described on the pages.
The only question asked most frequently was, “what would the world be like without books?” The very question is absurd and depressing. It is always said that the current technology signals the demise of the book. Decades ago, it was said that the radio would replace books. The fear persisted throughout the invention of television and internet. But scenes like that of a Cantonese man reading a book negate the notion that modern advances pose a threat to reading. Books are themselves a form of technology that is spread over the pages and makes us delve into the complexities of life.