When Germany’s federal commissioner for culture and media, Wolfram Weimer, initially rejected adding to the German National Library in favor of digital archiving, he provoked a sharp backlash. Although he later suggested the expansion could proceed, the episode underscored a broader question: what role do physical books play in an era dominated by screens and streams of instantly available text?
We live amid a constant rush of words — podcasts, social feeds, emails, comment threads and breaking online headlines. That nonstop flow supplies information but often short-circuits the ability to linger on a single idea. A printed book resists that impulse. It has weight, texture and presence; it needs no battery and cannot be dismissed with the flick of a thumb. A book insists, in a small way, that you slow down.
Cultural writer Frank Berzbach describes reading as an aesthetic pleasure: books are not only vessels for content but objects to be savored — their covers, paper, smell and the deliberate gesture of turning pages. He compares the ritual of handling a book to the care with which one treats a vinyl record: pulling it from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable, lowering the needle and hearing the first crackle before the music begins. The form and ritual contribute to the enjoyment.
Holding a book creates room to pause and to claim time for reflection. A 19th‑century novel demands a different pace of attention than the streamlined narratives common in modern television or gaming; its sentences and syntax require a more attentive reading. The same is true of carefully researched nonfiction in hardcover: there are no algorithms to redirect you, no feeds that intrude, no notifications to fragment concentration.
The criticism of Weimer’s initial digital preference also reflects a wish to preserve public spaces dedicated to contemplative reading. Libraries offer a particular hush — soft footsteps, pages turning, low conversation — where time feels less hurried. The shared, quiet presence of other readers creates a community that trusts books to deliver depth beyond what the internet quickly hands over. In that way, libraries can feel almost sacred.
At home, a bookshelf extends this sanctuary. From creased paperbacks to rare volumes, the books we keep shape our thinking and signal our interests. Unlike files buried in folders, physical books remain visible on a shelf, ready to be rediscovered by curiosity, memory or simply convenience.
For Berzbach, living among books fosters a sense of belonging: those who keep books around always have a kind of home.
Originally written in German.