Owning Books, or, Even "Eat, Pray, Love" Probably Has the Blood of a Fistfight on Somebody's Pages.

Owning books is weird. I don't mean digital books, though that's weird in its own way (what's the point in paying that big that you can't use to fix a wobbly chair?) Physical books are strange because they exist outside of most other forms of media and possession in terms of defacement. You are generally not encouraged to write on things you own, be it tables, speakers, candles, clothings, walls, or anything else a three-year old would vehemently disagree with me on. Books are an exception. There are reasons. Books, unlike most other things, have a wonderful amount of blank paper on its margins. On the unblank part of the book are words, sometimes hundreds of thousands, that contain ideas, phrases and whatever else we might find so darn wonderful we certainly don't want to forget. And so we often write miniature personal journals in our large published books. Some have organized systems based on color, line, and who knows what else. These are the same people who make sure their socks match even if they're going scuba diving. Others are more frantic. They notate, write, doodle, scribble, etch and underline, with pages emblazoned with bubbling-over commentary containing way too many exclamation marks. Some folks want to write in their books, but don't have the chutzpah. Oh sure, it sounds cool to have a library of books with thoughts, but you have to be the kind of person who thinks their thoughts matter enough to defile another person's work, and not just meander on your smartphone instead. You know this person. They own multiple moleskin journals with only the first few pages written in. They are stuck on the second line of a haiku. Others treat their books like one does anything else. That is, protected. They do not write in their books. In fact, if they watch someone bend a page of any book, they wither a little bit inside. The book is just fine as it is and certainly doesn't need someone's asinine commentary on the side, even their own, thank you very much. The covers tend to look immaculate.

Now, for a serious question: which are better for general defacement? New, or used? New books can be fun to write in for a few reasons. First, it's yours, and doesn't have anyone else's memories attached. A new book looks at you and says, quoting master poet Jason Mraz, "I'm yours." Used books can carry a sense of obligation. "Hey," says an old book, "remember how your great-grandma carried this out of Russia? Would be a shame if you turned the pages too fast and brought shame on your family." With a new book, you're free of the baggage of an old one. Have at it. That's not to say used books aren't good for defacing. Far from it. Just as long as you don't know the story behind the book. If you bought it cheap at a shop, all the better. Especially fun are the notes on the inside of the front cover, and on the title page. Declarations of love and affection, offers of condolence, and the occasional snarky aside have been known to enhance even the dreariest texts, including, amazingly, anything ever written by Elizabeth Gilbert.

no, thx, i'm good lulz

How personal should our notes be in a book? There are a few schools of thought. The first is that you should be, sigh, an open book and let it all hang out. This is certainly cheaper than a therapist, but there are downsides, the biggest being that other people can read. Great insights can be incredibly embarrasing and vulnerable, like that time you realized you bought the timeshare because you wanted to fit in. Yes. Fit in. However, this is not as much a threat anymore as social media has taken the fire away from the confessions of the written word. Don't get me wrong; the written word can contain far more powerful revelations, but social media is immediately accesible. When I was a lad, the only source of embarrasing revelations was if someone left a journal or notated book out, both probably containing poetry. Now, you can go online and in seconds find real people willingly sharing bad poetry on Facebook without anyone putting them at gunpoint. As every scar we possess carries some story to tell, so too are the wounds of our books. The coffee stain on my copy of after the quake by Haruki Murakami comes from an Anchorage Jiffy Lube paper cup that spilt on an automobile passenger floor, the slim volume being the inadvertent absorbent for the destructive breakfast blend. I hated it at the time, but now I like it. There's a memory there. If only ebooks allowed for digital crumbs, drink, spittle and even blood. It'd make for a more rounded personal library.

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