I’m a girl who is in love with her books, all her books: super-sized art books, life-changing novels, and tattered, secondhand paperbacks from college.  I live with them in piles, on shelves, and lying randomly throughout my home. Then last year, to save trees, I started reading the newspaper on a tablet, and then, because it was easier than running to the library, I started reading newly-released books on a tablet, and then, when I was packing for a summer getaway and realized that I was, suddenly, freed from lugging a separate tote bag with magazines and paperbacks, I had a revelation.  Who really needs books?

Now I’ve arrived at a more moderate position. Last night I downloaded a new novel onto my tablet, settled into my couch, and was poised to dive in when I realized that this book looked exactly like every the other book I’ve ever read on my tablet. I’m ready to surrender the pleasures of a physical book for the convenience of a tablet: an evocative dust jacket, the satisfaction of moving through a stack of pages, and the comforting bulk of the thing in you lap. But I’m frustrated with the reading software my library uses, that reduces a book to a stream of text without graphic hierarchy.  This makes it possible to download an entire book in less than a minute, which is important for accessibility.  But it renders all books in an identical font and format, so that War and Peace  looks exactly like Huckleberry Finn looks exactly like Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?  The software offers ways for a reader to adjust font size, screen brightness, and page orientation, but none to adjust page width and line spacing. The software simply floods the screen with text, and wading through it requires a special tenacity. The New Yorker and McSweeney’s have luscious, graphics-heavy apps that capture the feeling of physical issues of those magazine, but they require downloading files that are a hundred times the size of a book on my tablet.  This is one solution. But there has got to be a middle ground, a way to set font, kerning and paragraphs within an easily downloadable text file, so that each e-book is something special.

Is there anything left to say about Apple chairman Steve Jobs, who passed away on Wednesday?  He was just 56 years old and he died from pancreatic cancer, a fast, cruel way to die.  The commentary, both in newspapers and on twitter, praises him for “changing” the way we communicate, watch movies, listen to music, make presentations, and, basically, live.  And it credits him as a “genius,” breaking boundaries in computer technology.  The truth is that Steve Wozniak designed the first Apple computers, and that Jonathan Ive designed the roster of current, iconic Apple products: the iMac, the iPod, the iPhone and the iPad.

If Jobs had a genius, it was for taste-making.  He wasn’t a scientist, he was an aesthete,  an aesthete with an astounding gift for marketing.  Just the day before he died Apple unveiled the latest iteration of the iPhone, the 4S, that resembled the earlier model but was enhanced with voice-detection.  Both geeks and and laymen were disappointed, because they didn’t just want a phone that was innovative, they wanted a phone that also looked innovative.  (Rumors predicted that the 4S would be all-glass, or tear-shaped.)  Jobs had set them up.  During his tenure at Apple he made product design important in a way that it has not been important since the Bauhaus, when looking modern was very nearly the same as being modern.  Jobs brought high design into our everyday lives.