In news that feels like a personal attack on everyone who peaked at "there, their, and they're," physical dictionary sales are apparently climbing.
Yes, in 2024, a year where people communicate primarily through grunts, cry-laughing emojis, and the word "slay," someone out there is buying bound paper full of words.
The usual suspects are blaming this on Gen Z's cottagecore phase, the same people who romanticize typewriters and churn their own butter.
Nothing says "authentic analog living" like dropping forty bucks on a book you could access for free on your phone in 0.3 seconds.
But hey, aesthetics over efficiency, I guess.
Let's be real about who's actually driving this.
It's not students—they've been letting ChatGPT write their essays since sophomore year.
It's not writers, who are all Googling "synonym for very" like the rest of us.
It's probably the same crowd that buys vinyl records and doesn't own a record player.
There's also the nostalgia angle, which is doing a lot of heavy lifting here.
People miss "the tactile experience" of flipping pages.
Ma'am, you can get that same tactile experience by opening your mail.
But nobody's writing a think piece about the resurgence of credit card offers.
Half this country can't agree on what a woman is, but sure, let's all bond over Merriam-Webster.
Nothing unites a divided nation like pretending we know how to spell "bureaucracy" without autocorrect.
The dictionary is the one thing we can all agree is correct, mostly because we don't actually read it.
Some experts say this is a reaction to screen fatigue.
People are tired of blue light and notifications and infinite scrolling.
But the solution to "too much screen time" isn't a book that defines the words you're already not reading on your screen.
Touch grass, then maybe touch a thesaurus.
What's really happening is simpler and sadder: buying a dictionary is a personality.
It says, "I'm the smart one" without requiring you to actually be the smart one.
You just have to own it, put it on a shelf, and let guests assume you consult it during your deep thoughts.
It's the intellectual equivalent of owning a Peloton you never ride.
They've been watching their industry get hollowed out by the internet for two decades, and now they get to cash in on the same nostalgia economy that's keeping Blockbuster-branded socks and disposable cameras alive.
The irony is that the dictionary is the least fun book ever written.
It has no plot, no characters, no twist ending where "irregardless" gets retroactively legalized.
It's just words defining other words in an endless loop, like a snake eating its own tail, except the snake is also judging your grammar.
Put it next to your sourdough starter and your cassette tapes.
But let's not pretend this is some noble return to literacy.
We deserve to be mocked for it. **The Take:** Buying a dictionary to feel smart is like buying a treadmill to feel fit—it only works if you actually use it, and we all know you won't.
The resurgence isn't a literacy renaissance; it's a prop for your bookshelf's Instagram debut.
Final Thoughts
If you really want to support words, read one.