Cracked-Open Spines and Dog-Eared Corners

I once learned some rules that I now break with relish. Don’t mark in books or read while you eat. Don’t take them to beaches or into the bath. Don’t dog-ear corners or crack open spines or lay books face down on the bedside stand. A respect for books—this was the aim of the well-meaning teachers and book-saving librarians who taught me these rules.

It’s good these rule makers haven’t come to my study, where well-thumbed books fill the shelves.

They’d find volumes with food stains and water marks. Many have bent pages and worn-down covers. And a few have cracked spines and can now open wide.

And if they leafed through the chapters, they’d be able to tell that I read with a pencil—drawing arrows to link concepts, asterisks by sentences I like, exclamation points when I’m surprised, and question marks when I disagree. When I find scenes or points particularly striking, I draw vertical lines

In the margins I note striking themes and linguistic tools—irony, symbolism, juxtaposition, tone. And on front and back flyleaves, I copy favorite quotes.

Such markings alter the nature of reading, transforming it into dialogue. And months later when I pick up a book, I remember—the author’s thoughts, but also my own.

These are my books, of course, not yours, not the library’s. I love to borrow. But when I do, I sometimes stop reading a few chapters in. I return the book and buy my own copy. And when it arrives, I start over again in dialogue form.

Marking a book, I’ve come to see, is not mutilation. It’s a sign of regard. I’m paying attention, considering, engaging, which is, of course, what teachers and librarians want.