Before, when we were alone at home—or even with others but still alone in a good way—you might have thought: I should read this book, immerse myself in its world, become someone else, go somewhere else, learn something new. You could enter into the magic of literature, a magic that turns everyone who experiences it into a lifelong devotee.
But now, things have changed. You feel lonely, you have little or no time, and when you open your mobile phone, your desire to read is snatched away by a flood of brief content: news, ideas, arguments, gossip, poems, songs, stunning photos, kitschy photos, messages from friends and acquaintances, posts from your best friend, posts from the Prime Minister, truths and lies, wisdom and nonsense—a vast free market of information! All in an instant, the whole world is in the palm of your hand.
By the time you manage to turn it off, you’re tired, saturated with information, your eyes stinging.
How can you then feel the need to find a good book and immerse yourself in its many dense pages?
This way of life—because it is a way of life, a way of thinking—dramatically changes the relationship between people and books. The strong need to read has been displaced.
Convenience, brevity, overwhelming variety, disorder: it is clear that the book market is the first to suffer from this new way of life. It is already struggling, both qualitatively and quantitatively. It seems that many books are still being published, but they are often read only by friends, relatives, and perhaps random people who happen to attend lectures aimed at covering publishing costs—and that’s about it.
The general public is preoccupied with their mobile phones and laptops. Few remain loyal lovers of print, and I wonder if we will ever break free from this preoccupation—this addiction to the tiny mobile screen—and return, with a touch of nostalgia, to the shelves of a library.
It’s difficult, and I can only imagine how publishers and authors must feel about this world-changing phenomenon that shows no sign of ending.