Books, humor, reading, philosophy, humorous books article
Books are magical rectangles of compressed tree pulp that whisper stories, facts, and the occasional pie recipe into your brain. But have you ever considered how weird books really are? Think about it: you’re holding a bound stack of sliced-up wood that has been tattooed with ink symbols only certain creatures (humans, mostly) can decode. Yet somehow, this cryptic artifact can make you laugh, cry, or become irrationally interested in the history of turnip farming in 18th-century Prussia.

Let’s begin with the question no one asks: why aren’t more books about cheese? There are, admittedly, books with cheese—cheese appearing as a side character, a passing metaphor, or a villain in a lactose-intolerant plot twist—but rarely do we get a hero made of brie. This seems like a missed opportunity. Imagine The Gouda Gatsby, where Gatsby throws extravagant cheese-tasting parties to impress a dairy heiress.

Books are categorized in genres: fiction, non-fiction, mystery, romance, sci-fi, horror, self-help, and of course, experimental hamster poetry (not yet popular, but I’m working on it). Each genre has its own quirks. Science fiction often features aliens or robots debating the merits of emotions. Horror enjoys describing basements where no one should realistically go. Romance novels favor protagonists who fall in love after tripping into each other’s arms at a farmers’ market while holding suspiciously fragrant baguettes.

And then there are books people pretend to have read. No shame—we’ve all nodded solemnly when someone mentions Ulysses or Infinite Jest, even though we only got six pages in before our brains fled the scene like a squirrel sensing a leaf blower. These books serve a vital cultural purpose: they make excellent shelf filler and great conversation deflectors at parties.

But books are not just for reading. Oh no. Some are for stacking under uneven furniture. Some are for pressing flowers. Some become aesthetic props in hipster cafés where no one is allowed to actually open them. Some are even hollowed out to hide secret stashes of chocolate or tax evasion (though the IRS has gotten wise to this).

Let us not forget audiobooks. These are like podcasts, but with fewer tangents about kombucha. They allow you to read while driving, jogging, vacuuming, or pretending to listen to someone talk about their dream from last night. And yet, the audiobook debate rages on: “Is it really reading?” To which I say—if a robotic British voice can recite Moby Dick while you clean your bathtub, that’s a literary victory.

Bookstores, those endangered havens of ink and quiet judgment, remain among the last places where it’s socially acceptable to sniff objects in public. Library books, too, have a smell—a comforting musk of dusty wisdom and ancient snack crumbs. And libraries themselves are wonders of civilization. They offer knowledge for free, shelter from the rain, and sometimes even cats. Why aren’t more books written about libraries that time-travel or contain secret portals to cheese-based parallel universes? (Again, working on it.)

Of course, the digital age has gifted us eBooks, where thousands of titles can be crammed into a glowing slab you can drop in the bath once. This is convenient, terrifying, and strangely comforting—like owning a spaceship filled with literature. Still, some people swear by physical books, and there is no denying the unmatched joy of accidentally dropping a 900-page hardcover on your foot. That’s literature you can feel.

In the end, books are portals, anchors, doorstops, and occasionally weapons (especially dictionaries). They tell us who we are, who we might become, and what would happen if penguins developed a legal system. Whether you’re into cozy mysteries, brutal space operas, or haikus about traffic cones, there’s a book out there for you.

Just maybe not yet about pogo sticks. But give it time.