I am slow to tears. Of the scores of movies that I have watched, the hundreds of books that I have read, each medium has provoked but a single crying episode. The movie, I am embarrassed to name. The book, Great Expectations, during the scene in which Pip awakens to find that he has been nursed to health by the ever-loving, all-good Joe, the rustic brother-in-law whom Pip has discounted and discarded in typical social climber fashion.
Tonight, I add to the book count, Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth.
While bibliophile tortoises shun the evil digital destroyer, I hippety-hopped aboard the e-book revolution sans reservation, having been an owner of Kindle 1st generation. I am not nostalgic for that earthy book scent, the graze of wafer sheets against my fingertips, the multi-colored mélange of rectangles stacked upon shelves. Though a romantic of the early nineteenth century sort, I am not a traditionalist and can easily forgo old conventions in favor of new conveniences.