9 February 2026
In praise of marginalia
For years I kept my books pristine, as if they were on loan from some stricter version of myself. No dog-ears, no underlining, certainly no ink. The result was a shelf of clean, anonymous copies that could have belonged to anyone.
Now I read with a pencil. A line under a sentence I want to remember, a date in the corner, a small question mark where I disagree. Months later those marks are a second book written quietly alongside the first — the record of who I was when I read it.
A borrowed book should go back unmarked, of course. But the ones that are truly yours? Let them carry your fingerprints.