On my way beyond the escalators of the second floor of the department store — with its overworked humans in red shirts walking briskly across the aisles clutching small tablet instructing them to shop on behalf of someone far afield from the building, at their own small tablet who paid for a cyber-discounted rate on a three-pack of bodywash — my search for cold weather items for the second and third most heat sensitive parts of my body was waylaid by the book section.
Like I always am. Distracted by the media shelves on my way to some form of the necessities.
And in a small cardboard display atop the gray shelf, sat three copies of Penguin Minis, and an entirely new format of book, held in one hand, flipped like a phone screen interaction, and redesigned typographically in the particular case of John Green’s second novel, I discovered, when I returned to the shelves again with my new beanie and gloves retrieved from their hiding places in the corner of the floor, full of footnotes and graphs of algebraic equations.
Supposed innovations to the format of the book. We’re making new books, and new kinds of books, all the time.