There is nothing like holding a real book with rustling paper pages, scanning the story line by line, and then turning the page in breath holding anticipation of what happened next.
Reading is a physical thing as well as mental. It’s the crispness of the paper, the flow of words that conjure up picture after picture in the mind, and the smooth heavy richness of a leather cover warm on my knees or the rough texture of a linen finish on the covers.
Actually it goes back to standing in front of the book case and scanning the titles. Tipping one or two partly out, teasing myself with the story I know is there, ready to take me instantly from my easy chair to anyplace in the world, or the universe. In a book anything is possible.
Then there is the preparation to read. The cup of tea or coffee. The treat to snack on. The fire burning brightly in the fireplace, and a little blanket to cover the knees.
Then, a sip of beverage, running the hand over the book, and opening the cover. Blank page. Turn. Title page. Maybe an illustration. A table of contents.
And then...chapter one. A skillful author can have you immersed and gone in the first half page. A story has begun and trees and gardens and people and mountains rise around the chair, until some mundane responsibility pulls us back to reality.
Ahh, the acquaintance of the book.
An experience the double tap can never give you.