The movie had amazing cinematography and breathtaking visuals, but the book allowed me to use my own imagination to create a rich, fictional landscape in my mind, and I could also use the book to throw at the spiders that live in my apartment and yet refuse to pay rent. The book was better.
The movie featured acting performances that were both raw and human, but the book made my bag feel heavy enough that I justified carrying it around as being a workout, which allowed me to cancel my gym membership, fire my personal trainer, and stop dating the CEO of SoulCycle. The book was better.
The movie reimagined the antiquated story into a relevant and topical look at the woes of the modern world, but the book didn’t have Owen Wilson in it. The book was better.
The movie allowed the story’s message to reach an entirely new audience and inspire non-readers, but the book had heft and a sharp spine capable of incapacitating the mugger that pulled a gun on me and screamed, “Your book or your life!” The book was better.
The movie’s success spurred the author to write several great sequels to the original, but the book smelled kinda like cinnamon because I used it to store my extra cinnamon. The book was better.
The movie gave me a chance to hang out with my coworkers in a place where they couldn’t speak, but the book had margins where I could test out pens to see if they still had ink before determining whether they lived or died, like some sort of pen God. The book was better.
The movie featured 3-D effects and surround sound that made me feel like I was a part of the cinematic universe, but I was able to re-gift the book at a White Elephant where I ended up walking home with a $25 Amazon gift card that I used to donate to a charity Owen Wilson hates. The book was better.
The movie’s amazing soundtrack provided a storytelling enhancement that simple words on a page never could, but the book covered an ugly soy sauce stain on my table in the pictures I posted on Craigslist, allowing me to sell it to some sucker for 150 bucks. The book was better.
The movie starred the multi-talented and gregarious Luke Wilson, but the book taught me the word “gregarious.” The book was better.
The movie featured thrilling action sequences that kept me on the edge of my seat, but the book was almost 1,000 pages, meaning more trees were killed to make it and putting me slightly closer to getting my revenge on the trees for what they did. The book was better.
The movie won several awards and instantly became a modern classic, but the book’s “About The Author” section finally quelled my life-long desire to know whether John Grisham’s kids had stupid names. The book was better.
The movie only took an hour and 45 minutes of my precious time here on Earth, but I could pretend to read the book at a coffee shop while actually listening to the two guys next to me discuss their genius idea for a TV show that’s like Brooklyn Nine-Nine but it’s set in a different part of Brooklyn. The book was better.
The movie changed the ending to something I enjoyed way more, but the book had pages that I was able to use for kindling to start a signal fire that saved my life after being lost in the woods for several days. The movie was better because I was rescued by Owen Wilson.