‘There is no frigate like a book,’ wrote poet Emily Dickinson, ‘to take us lands away.’ And recently, the captain of my soul has been Dickinson herself, that master of floral economy and passionate doubt. Dickinson’s poetry (crisp, chiefly unadorned) and ideas (skeptical, unorthodox) are surprisingly modern, however steeped in her life and era.

But this book, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, is more modern still. It might have been unrecognisable to the author. Not only because the poet rarely published in her lifetime, but also because of the format: charged pigment particles in black and white, in a light plastic. No paper, no ink. I’m reading Dickinson on a Kindle, the e-reader from Amazon.