Just discovered this nice paragraph in Haruki Murakami's South of the Border, West of the Sun, on playing records, the user experience of vinyl, etc.
"Shimamoto was in charge of the records. She'd take one from its sleeve, place it carefully on the turntable, without touching the grooves with her fingers, and, after making sure to clean the cartridge of any dust with a tiny brush, lower the needle ever so gently on to the record. When the record was finished, she'd spray it and wipe it with a felt cloth. Finally she'd return the record to its sleeve and its proper place on the shelf. Her father had taught her the procedure, and she followed his instructions with a terribly serious look on her face, her eyes narrowed, her breath held in check. Meanwhile, I sat on the sofa, watching her every move. Only when the record was safely back on the shelf did she turn to me and give a little smile. And every time, this thought hit me: it wasn't a record she was handling, it was a fragile soul inside a glass bottle."
