The book, not just as a source of knowledge or entertainment, but as an intrinsically pleasing object, is a familiar theme. Indeed, it came up yet again in this newspaper’s letters pages earlier this week. The point of this latest diatribe against the rise of the ebook was that physical books leave a trace, can be passed on, enhance a room, rekindle (no pun intended) a memory. And yet for most of my life, voracious and indiscriminate book reader though I am, the printed book has been nothing but a tease: a will-o’-the-wisp holding out what might be possible, only to snatch it away as soon as I reach for it.

The perversity comes in my reaching for it at all. I was born blind, and reading for me has always meant braille. I’ve had much fun and satisfaction from books, but they are the one case where I’ve not been able to adhere to my rule of not mourning what I couldn’t have. With only a tiny proportion of books published available in braille – well under 1% – the world’s literature was not so much offered up to you as dangled in front of you. To be fair, the […]