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Tuesday

Phone Reader

I am a binge-reader. I read Nutrition Facts over breakfast. The duty free magazine. I wolf down novels. Sometimes, I hate to go to work, to sleep even and everything around me is overcast with people and places straight out of my latest obsession. Their memory only starts to wash away after I have firmly closed the back cover over their strange and gauzy lives. Then sometimes, a book may sit by my bedside for weeks, the bookmark far to the left. But it will be consumed, eventually. The last page pulls like gravity.

With hyperfictions, this is different. They float on the monitor in self-contained screens, half covering, half covered by other windows: e-mail, writing, online-banking, phoning; parallel, equi-valent views into the clutter of my hard drive. Every single screen of a hyperfiction has to struggle against the pull of half a dozen other applications and every victory is as brief as the page it calls up. Reading comes across as hard work, every click an effort. And indeed, from day one, the euphoric accounts of how hypertext reconfigures our reading and writing habits (if "we" happen to be the fortunate few computer-literates of the Western world) were accompanied by complaints about the utter unreadability of this would-be embodiment of postmodern theory.

Tekka