ALEX MACPHERSON
Arts Writer

Notoriously Verbose: a weekly book review by the Sheaf’s long-time volunteer and friend Alex MacPherson.

The introduction of Apple’s vaunted iPad, undisputed flagship of “e-readers,” intensified the already vigorous debate raging between devoted fans of technological gadgetry and passionate supporters of the traditional printed book.

This conflict is not new; it has lain dormant since the notion of an electronic book was first proposed. Recent innovations have made the concept practicable, which in turn galvanized a debate that is thoroughly ideological. It began in earnest with the 2007 debut of Amazon’s proprietary e-reader, the Kindle. Furor surrounding the launch of the iPad moved the discourse further into the public sphere.

  The first generations of e-readers were shabby and unimaginative. Numerous congenital defects made the devices wildly unpopular: battery life was measured in minutes, interfaces were unnavigable and display screens induced crippling headaches. These issues have since been rectified. The combination of quality components and smart design resulted in a crop of devices that are really quite good. Gone are the niggardly batteries and infuriating operating systems. The iPad and the Kindle do not betray their ancestry; they are fine examples of simple and effective technology.

  This pair of e-readers, I think, has finally demonstrated the efficacy of the portable book. When coupled with the overwhelming array of electronically available literature, the e-reader represents a formidable challenge to the establishment. For precisely this reason the conservative backlash against these devices has undergone a pronounced change. Because e-readers are firmly embedded in the public consciousness, they cannot be easily dismissed.

Uncertainty regarding the future of the book has spurred both sides into action. Frenzied disciples of the e-reader condemn the proliferation of a wasteful and archaic medium, the printed page. Equally zealous defenders of “hard” books suggest those who readily embrace technology do so for facile and sanctimonious reasons. Both groups offer cogent arguments but reality belies even the most convincing reasons: the e-reader is here to stay.

  In spite of the contagious delirium accompanying the ascent of the e-reader — which, to be fair, might not testify to the quality of the concept as much as it does to the fact that the iPad is really fucking cool — I won’t be participating. The orgy of touchscreen-actuated techno-eroticism will have to carry on without me. Instead, I will be doing my part to support the publishing industry. This mainly consists of spending too much money on books. Salient parallels can be drawn between literature and cigarettes: when they jack up the price, I’ll stop. Yeah, right.

  I don’t necessarily subscribe to the usual arguments claiming the superiority of books. Reading Dostoevsky on an LCD is not manifested philistinism (you’re reading Dostoevsky, after all) and iPads won’t be easy to steal (if you put it down, you do so because you’ve suddenly lost your arms). No, my hostility is based on a fundamental design flaw that will forever preclude my use of such devices. Quite simply, e-readers are not waterproof.

  To illustrate I must offer a rather embarrassing confession: if in the course of drinking liquid I am confronted with something even remotely funny, the fluid will be forced out of my nose in a most violent manner. My high-pitched, wheezing hyena laugh is guaranteed to produce a fire hose. I can offer no explanation for this; it simply happens. If a book happens to contain even one funny or amusing sentence, I will invariably encounter it when my mouth is full of water (or, more catastrophically for those nearby, wine).

  Consider my treasured copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72. (I treasure it because I filched it from my father and I’m afraid he might discover that I was the culprit.) Although less well known than the infamous “Vegas Book,” On the Campaign Trail is the superior work.

  Ostensibly a collection of loosely journalistic articles covering the 1972 American presidential campaign, Thompson’s masterpiece contains much more than straightforward political reportage. It is a deeply personal memoir of one man’s attempt to comprehend the rapidly changing nature of American politics. In doing so, Thompson encapsulates the feelings of a generation at a moment of epochal change.

  Sadly, Thompson is best known for his sordid tales of drug-addled debauchery; his substantial literary talent and inimitable wit go largely unnoticed. On the Campaign Trail certainly incorporates the former — the prospect of covering a political campaign did not curtail the man’s prolific fondness for binging — but is a more forceful demonstration of the latter. It is a remarkably well-written glimpse into the nebulous effects and plangent reverberations of universal upheaval. By casting the tumultuous factionalism and self-destructive tendencies of the Democratic Party against the umbra of Nixon’s political depravity, Thompson revealed a level of sophistication not seen in his previous works.

  It is also spectacularly, perhaps even criminally, funny. Like any famous author, Thompson has spawned his share of emulators. Most of these are consistently terrible and for good reason: they fail to recognize the humour inherent in their idol’s worldview. Aside from the drinking and drugging, which are superficially humorous, Thompson’s accounts of political absurdity, chicanery and intrigue are intrinsically funny.

Thompson’s finest moments are those of unabashed vituperation. His tirades, largely precipitated by a violent hatred of Nixon, are among the best ever written. More importantly, his scathing criticisms are apposite, his excoriations deserved. He approached political reporting with the notion that everyone is fair game but he never censured anyone without good reason. Imitators seem to prefer gratuity; Thompson let his intellect direct him.

  And it is for this reason that Thompson is unique among authors and On the Campaign Trail is unsuitable for electronic consumption. Every page contains a funny sentence. Actually, every page has a dozen or more funny sentences. I cannot read it with a drink in hand; if I did, the book would wind up drenched. And paperbacks are incredibly robust; they can accept this kind of treatment without breaking or falling apart. An iPad, on the other hand, could never survive such a deluge.