I was a pretty avid reader as a kid, but as I transitioned to adulthood, my ability to focus on the written page withered. It seems I’m not alone: PISA reports reveal unprecedented drops in reading ability, professors in elite universities claim that humanities students can’t finish books, and looking around me, it feels like there are fewer book readers than ever. Fingers point to excessive screen time, and in my case at least, it was certainly the primary culprit.

A few years ago, however, I rebelled against doom-scrolling and sought help from a psychologist. It took me a lot of work to build a modest but constant habit of reading for twenty minutes every day. However, what started out as discipline turned into wildfire, and I now read at a pace of about 1.5 books per week. Russian literature, the history of ideas, ancient philosophy, 19th century Europe, computer science - so many topics, so little time!

Learning to cherish the act of reading in the here-and-now, instead of seeking some future benefit, has been tantamount to the process. But the benefits are many too, and they transcend the purely intellectual: the imagination is more vivid, and the spirit more serene.

As reading has become my favorite pastime, I’ve also started buying many more books. Inspired by Umberto Eco’s philosophy on book-collecting I now acquire more books than I can read and find great joy in growing a private library to draw from, depending on the vibes of the moment. Following the spirit of Eco’s recommendations, I stick to a monthly budget that feels generous yet affordable and that grows my collection at a steady pace. It’s a rather economical hobby compared to others I’ve had.

I’ve tried eBooks at several points in my life. The experience is pretty good, but I am skeptical of the ownership model, and above all, for me, nothing beats the physical experience of print books. Being surrounded by so many interesting tomes creates a virtuous mechanism that pushes me to read more. Wandering inside a bookstore, picking up books, and turning the pages is a great way to spend a bit of free time. And receiving books in the mail feels like mini-Christmas, every time.

On the latter, like many others, I purchase most of my books through Amazon. I don’t find the speed of delivery that valuable, but the competitive pricing (especially factoring in Prime), ease of ordering, and above all, the massive selection - including books in Spanish, English, and French, languages in which I read indistinctly - are huge factors for me.

It’s not uncommon for Amazon books to come damaged. There is, however, a problem with Amazon book ordering that to me is significantly worse than mishandled books: the emergence of print-on-demand books, that is, books that are not drawn from a stock edition but are printed on the spot when you order them.

The first time I remember noticing a print-on-demand book was with Bertrand Russell’s The Problems of Philosophy. The cover was somewhat funky and out of the ordinary, featuring a cartoon illustration of the English philosopher. The publishing house was nowhere to be found, and upon inspection, I saw “Printed by Amazon in France” at the back. I figured this was a book in the public domain, perhaps with little demand, so I didn’t think much of it.

But then, some time later, after receiving an order of Jack London’s classic Martin Eden, something bothered me. This was a Penguin Classics book, of which I own a few. Their quality is merely serviceable compared to other paperback collections, but I do appreciate their uniformity and their cover art, often based on classical paintings. This copy of Martin Eden, however, looked completely off. The cover texture was grainy, the art print was lower resolution, and the page typesetting looked very poor. Once again I saw “Printed in Italy by Amazon” at the back, and this time, I thought that I had been sold a pirated book.

This happened to me again shortly thereafter with another Penguin Classic, Knut Hamsun’s Growth of the Soil. Among other signs, this made me change my initial suspicion that it was a scam, but rather an accord between Amazon and Penguin Random House. Then came another bestselling novel, Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes, this time from another publishing house (Mariner). And then, with other popular non-fiction books, like A Conflict of Visions by Thomas Sowell, On Writing Well by William Zinsser (the cover on this one is visibly misprinted), or Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art.

I’ve reached a point where I can immediately tell a book has been printed on demand without even checking the back for confirmation. A few days ago, I received Pressfield’s The War of Art, and mere seconds after tearing the box and holding the book in my hands, I could tell. The glossy cover with subpar printing gave it away, and surely, after checking the last page, I could read “Printed in France by Amazon”.

Maybe I’ll be accused of being finicky, but collecting books brings me great joy as a hobby, and as an enthusiast, I appreciate the finer details of the experience. To add insult to injury, print-on-demand books seem to be significantly more expensive than stock equivalents. Growth of the Soil and Martin Eden cost me 18€ each, almost double the price of my stock (and heftier) Penguin Classics copy of The Brothers Karamazov, which cost 10€. Why would I want to pay so much more for a lesser version of a book? It’s also pretty dumbfounding that a household brand like Penguin would agree to any of this.

I can foresee Amazon’s PR argument defending the practice: it allows users to buy rare books that are not in print, and therefore everybody wins. But these books are not that rare, and I should be able to consider alternatives, such as buying from another online store, importing from the US or the UK (where many of these are clearly still in print, and may remain economical to import), or buying used.

Enshittification is a viral internet theory positing that digital platforms start out with pristine user experiences, but as time passes and they lock in users and businesses, the platform owners capture value for themselves and quality degrades significantly. I have been buying books on Amazon since my dad opened an account in the mid-90s - an oddity in Spain at the period - and this feels like a real switcheroo after having captured our custom.

To be fair to Amazon, their returns policy really comes in handy here. They’ve fully refunded Martin Eden (for which I could find better alternatives) and On Writing Well (which is not only popular, but has print defects), and even told me to keep the books. Regardless, it all feels disappointing, frustrating, and wasteful. Adding print-on-demand to damaged-on-arrival books is starting to make the book purchasing experience feel pretty shitty.

I’ve thought of systematically refunding all print-on-demand books from now on, and I am currently pondering what to do with Pressfield’s The War of Art, but I am also busy and have other things to do than to engage in this disappointment/return/reorder cycle multiple times per year. Wouldn’t it be better for all sides if Amazon at least informed us that a book will be printed on demand and allowed us to make a decision before buying?

PS: If you like to read, feel free to connect with me on Goodreads!