From the reviewer’s perspective by Bill Kirton

I wonder how much of a part habit plays when we’re reviewing books. I ask (myself) this question because I’ve been trying to work out why I find it more difficult to review ebooks than printed ones.

Let’s take reviewing itself for a start. There are the short but nonetheless considered reviews destined for Amazon, then the others for journals or websites where you have a commitment to provide copy at regular intervals. The Amazon ones are fine. They don’t need you to make copious notes; it’s enough to read (and, one hopes, enjoy) the book then write a hundred or so words about the general impression left by it, any particularly striking details, characters, etc. and the overall comfort of the reading experience.

Then there’s the longer, more demanding piece for a review site. I have to admit that, sometimes, the compulsion of having to write the review leads to me reading a book in a different way. I’m going through it as a reviewer rather than as a reader, looking at the mechanics of it, seeking individual threads and effects, and this can get in the way of both the pleasure of reading and the discipline of reviewing. Because even the most strictly formal, academic appreciation of the crafting of a book ought to take account of its subjective impact. The true joy is when a book moves or excites you in some way and, simultaneously, you can see how it’s done so.

So that’s my general overall sense of what reviewing is for me but why, at the start of this piece, did I seem to separate ebooks from printed ones? And where does habit come into it?

The specific habit I’m thinking of concerns the making (NB ‘making’ not ‘taking’) of notes. As I read, I like to highlight turns of phrase that strike me, effects that work, looseness or anything else that undermines the narrative impact, and jot down subjective responses to particular developments. It’s an instantaneous thing and so I tend to make such notes in the margins, underline the words in question, stick a bookmark to the page so that I can find it again quickly. I can only do this, of course, if I own the book. If I don’t, I’m defacing it; if I do, I’m adding to its value for me at least. I have a copy of Madame Bovary which I bought as a student when Flaubert was a special subject of mine at university, so that makes it over 50 years old. Apart from writing a dissertation on him all that time ago, I’ve since lectured, given seminars and tutorials, and written articles for academic journals on him. Surprisingly frequently, I’ve also reread this particular book for pleasure. I used it again most recently when I wrote and recorded a short story for a podcast. The remit was to describe meeting a favourite fictional character. (Who wouldn’t want to spend an evening with Emma?). In case you’re interested, you'll find it here.

The result of all this is the dog-eared volume in the picture. It's a sort of archaeological record of my responses to the novel and to Flaubert over five decades. There are marginal notes written by the post-adolescent me which are sometimes embarrassing but which just as often act as fresh correctives to my current curmudgeonly musings. They’re a record of my changing relationship with the book and my own development as a reader.

The point is that, while my Kindle has the necessary features to allow me to highlight text and add my notes, it’s a laborious process which kills the spontaneity of the impulse. The precision of my fingers on a Kindle keyboard is that of a hippo landing an entrechat. I could, of course, continue to use a pen and make notes on a pad beside me, but then I have somehow to link them to the specific point in the narrative to which I’m referring and, with no page numbers, that’s difficult. Whether I do that or use the Kindle’s own features, it alters significantly the rhythm of the reading.

It may sound strange to say so but the same problems don't occur with an iPad. I can't explain it but the page-turning function is so much closer to the traditional reading experience that it helps me to suspend disbelief. Clicking the side of the Kindle is alien. Also, with the iPad, a simple touch on the screen, the ability to select and highlight text then add a note if you want, replicates very closely the old-fashioned 'defacing the book' technique.

But the questions remain. Do I prefer my old system because it’s a comfortable habit or because it really is a more efficient way of working? Does that breaking of the rhythm make my reviews of ebooks and printed books different from one another? I’d be interested to hear whether others share this experience or see it as me making yet another excuse for being lazy.