All my life I thought of myself as a book person. I bought lots of them, I went to new and used bookstores all the time, etc. I loved books.
But to quote myself from four years ago:
Since I wrote that, we’ve moved once again, to an even smaller house with much, much less shelf space for books than our last place. We gave away fully half of our 2,200 books before we moved last year, and yet only a small fraction of those we kept are shelved here in the small cottage that we’re sharing with my mother-in-law. The rest remained boxed up in off-site storage.
I bought a Kindle 13 years ago, but I haven’t used it since getting my first Android tablet shortly after that. People complain about the glare, etc., but it doesn’t bother me that much, and the convenience of using the same device I use for most of my Web browsing completely overshadows that slight issue.
I don’t expect to buy a new paper book ever again, and the only book I might conceivably see myself buying would be something rare and very important to me, although I can’t think of any possibilities at the moment. As I’ve aged, the importance of owning “stuff” has dramatically declined.