Some Books Need to Be In Your Hands

I don’t always follow my own rules—and maybe “rules” isn’t even the right word—but I do give myself a few loose guidelines. In life, sure, but also when it comes to possessions, especially books.

As a would-be avid reader, I tell myself I should prioritise non-fiction on Audible, particularly the kind that is very obviously trying to teach me something. The same applies to borrowing from the library. Fiction can be listened to, but not if my very core tells me: *Jess, you need this with you forever.*

Reading, Reality, and Buying Anyway

As life goes, I am busy, lazy, and very likely part of the learning disability spectrum. While I’ve finally returned to reading after a dry spell, I’ve also started a new job. Audible wins eight times out of ten. The other two books I read are usually library loans.

Does that stop me from buying books?

No.

Only my more financially conservative partner can slow my book-buying tendencies, and she is, unfortunately, semi-successful. But there are weeks when not even divine intervention could stop me. And I fucking love it.

I enjoy buying ebooks and audiobooks too, even if the reading part sometimes comes later. But the thrill of a book that is *forever mine* is something else entirely. It isn’t just the hormonal hit of buying something new.

You might feel the same way about DVDs, watches, vinyl records, or ceramic pigs. But books...books are an exquisite conundrum for someone who wants to own less, save the planet more, and yet believes that literature and knowledge are among the most precious things in existence.

I also collect Casio watches, but not with the same devotion.

Minimalism, Then and Now

There are millions of people in my own country who buy books at a far higher rate than I do. Hopefully, they also read more than I do.

I once went through a serious phase of minimalism. I felt comforted and resolute when I read Goodbye, Things by Fumio Sasaki, on audiobook, of course, before falling asleep. It will surprise no one that I never reached the point of donating or discarding all my books in favour of a single Kindle.

Still, I saw his point.

My apartment wasn’t disastrous, but books were stacked everywhere due to a lack of shelf space. Many had been thumbed through once or twice, waiting for a future version of me with more time.

Sasaki writes of misery born from excess, of closets filled with once-loved clothes, abandoned hobbies, unused instruments, and aspirations postponed indefinitely. His words resonated.

After finishing the book, I finally found the courage to throw away t-shirts, pants, papers, and other *chapalang*. I felt lighter. Better. For a while.

As with most things of the mind, the feeling ebbed. I began buying again; this time guided by a gentler, “does it spark joy?” philosophy.

What changed permanently was my relationship to objects. I was never a hoarder, but as a child, I struggled to throw anything away. Even a torn envelope corner felt impossible to discard once it had been with me for long enough.

I still haven’t unpacked that with a therapist.

Today, throwing away clothes without sentimental meaning is easy. Pausing before purchases happens...sometimes. But there is one absolute rule:

I will never throw a book in the bin.

Donate it, gift it, pass it along—yes. But discard it without care? Never.

Of course, this is about meaning. About the value we attach to knowledge. Maybe it’s about convincing myself I’m intellectual. But I genuinely believe in the value of possessing books. Or at least, some of them.

This is not a defence of consumerism. Studies consistently show that once our core needs are met—not just survival, but comfort and security—buying more makes us less happy. The joy of purchasing is immediate and fleeting. The environmental cost, however, is lasting.

We should absolutely buy less useless shite. But I don’t believe we need to condemn owning physical things, especially those that matter to us and to society at large.

Books are something I never regret buying, even if I’m unsure I’ll read all of them. You might convince me of the same necessity when it comes to vinyl records, CDs, or Gandalf’s pipe.

What It Means to Own

Owning media is a divisive topic. Movies make this especially clear.

Most of us no longer own what we watch. We stream it. There is nothing tangible to hold, examine, or keep. The games we play, the films we love, they can disappear at the whim of a platform.

Streaming is convenient, and often wonderful. But do you own physical copies of the movies you want to revisit for decades? The ones with extended cuts, interviews, posters, and commentary?

And what about books? The ones you need to smell?

Albums, books, and notebooks are vessels of memory. I’ve lost countless photos from early camera phones, wiped away by upgrades and forgotten backups. My youngest sister was born in the late 2000s, and we struggle to find images of her early childhood. They existed once. Now they don’t.

If memory tied to physical things disappears, what happens to cultural memory?

Yes, language existed long before printed books. And yes, ebooks still contain words. But they do not carry the same symbolism, ritual, or emotional weight.

There is something in the holding, the opening, the physical act itself. A ritual that separates reading from scrolling, playing a record from tapping a screen.

And for that one special book: don’t you want to read it by candlelight if the power goes out?

Digital and Physical Can Coexist

I love ebooks. I love streaming. I love YouTube. I would never give up digital media.

But I don’t want to give up physical media either.

Owning something places a different value on the art and the artist. It allows for revisiting without urgency, for slow appreciation, for long-term companionship.

Some things want to be returned to again and again. Some want to be savoured slowly. Some just want to stay with you.

Psychological research often supports the idea that physical books offer benefits beyond digital or audio formats. But this isn’t just about cognition, but meaning.

Collecting (not hoarding) appears to be natural. Behavioural scientists suggest it’s wired into us. Possessions help us form memories, express identity, and extend our sense of self.

Russell W. Belk famously described possessions as part of the “extended self.” We don’t just own things—we use them to understand who we are.

And sometimes, that understanding is just for us.

The Balance

There are clear advantages to digital media: accessibility, portability, affordability, and reduced physical waste. Audiobooks, especially, have helped me read more, focus better, and engage with ideas during low-energy periods.

I don’t want one world without the other.

Some books just need to be bought.

Some things need to be held.

Sometimes, you need touch to ponder.