In hardcover

There's a certain man in the city who only buys books in hardcovers, never in paperback.

A hardcover, or "hardback" as it's often called, not only has a physical presence that a paperback does not, it also has the virtue of being more expensive, thus is a more naturally adequate symbol of the increasingly oligarchical class structure to which the purchaser belongs. The purchasing decision has its practical aspects as well: hardcovers stand their ground while the covers of paperbacks often curl, as if wanting to leave the story inside behind; the type format chosen for paperbacks tends to be smaller, and the editorial scrutiny is sometimes lax. There's also the question of fashion: how will the book look on the bookshelf?

And what does the material substance of which a book is made say about the reader?

It says that he has, at this point in his life, after long, diligent hours spent in the workplace, often wearing regimental yellow and blue neckties to meetings at which he'd rather not have been, the money to spend on books of his choosing, and that doing so makes him feel wealthy. 

Some of the hardcover books he buys he reads, some he abandons mid-story, still others are unopened and placed on the shelf for their ornamental qualities. He's vowed to buy the new book about Ernest Hemingway's boat as a Christmas present to himself; he says he knows it's a sad story but wants to read it anyway.