Perhaps that’s why Jeffrey Toney’s reminiscence of the physical books he loves struck a chord. As Toney notes, art books are ill suited to the Matrix. One of my prized possessions is a copy of Alphonse Mucha: The Spirit of Art Nouveau, a beautiful coffee table compilation of this groundbreaking artist’s work. I remember coveting this book online for weeks, and being shocked upon finding a copy in the Art shelves at Half Price Books for $37. I’ve spent hours pouring over it, both alone and with friends. Someone may, one day, convert this tome into a rockin’ iPad application. But you can’t Kindle or Nook this book. The content is the pictures, not the type.

Digital books are fine for easy storage and search, but they carry no history. I can go on Amazon.com and download Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz for free. (And I have!) That doesn’t compare to when my high school girlfriend Mandy, aware of my fondness for the author, bought me a rare turn-of-the-20th-century print out of an antiques store window in Rochester, New York. Digital media is Teflon-coated against memories. None of us will look back 40 years from now and say to our grandchildren, “Yes, I remember the day I downloaded The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo.”

Maybe digital will make these “real book” moments even more precious. Maybe we’ll find that we treasure the physical books we own more – not merely because they’re rare or beautiful, but because they’re doorways to our histories.

What physical books do you cherish?

(* Actually, Mark said, “You can’t grep dead trees.” I decided to take mercy on the 99.7% of you who wouldn’t get that. You owe me.)

Outside of the few remaining humans, the world of The Road is dead: there is no sun; nothing grows. Sustenance must be foraged either from cans, or from the bones of your own species. An unnamed father and son trudge through this landscape, surviving off of scraps while avoiding the marauding gangs of killers and pederasts.

The scene that keeps cropping up in my head is where Father discovers something more precious than gold or diamonds.

He sat and ran his hand around in the works of the gutted machines and in the second one it closed over a cold metal cylinder. He withdrew his hand slowly and sat looking at a Coca Cola.

What is it, Papa?

It’s a treat. For you.

I cried at the end of this book. This scene didn’t make me cry. It didn’t have to. Father’s action here wasn’t extraordinary or heroic. It was the simple, instinctual act of a parent.

(If you haven’t heard, The Road has been movie-tized, with Viggo Mortensen in the lead role. Check out the trailer here.)