August 30, 2007
The Ethics of Book Handling
“Every reader has a personal ethic for how to treat a book, a morality for what can and can’t be done to the physical object.” Is dog-earing a page a violation of the sanctity of the volume, or an easy way to hold your place? What about highlighting key passages, or writing notes in the margins? Or even (gasp!) throwing out an old book you don’t want anymore?
comments
5 Responses to “The Ethics of Book Handling”
I don’t write in books because I wish to discover new ideas — and not just my old ideas — each time I open them up.
Precisely.
I used to fold over corners, but then my mom caught me at it and expressed her scorn for the practice—she’s a strong believer in buying the first-edition hardback and then donating your library to a public institution when you die. Letters and such, too. I do still fold over corners on magazines, and upon receipt I gleefully tear out all the pages that have ads on both sides.
In high school I would lightly pencil the page numbers of interesting passages—no notes—on the endpaper or inside cover. That way I didn’t have to be aware of what had struck me on a previous reading unless I wanted to.
In college, I wrote out detailed notes, keyed to page numbers, in a notebook. Again, I could look things up later if I needed to, or I could read the unmarked text afresh. As an added benefit, writing these notes out in longhand gave me more time to think about why a passage had struck me as noteworthy. I had a computer, but I chose not to use it for this purpose.
I use Post-Its now sometimes, but only in how-to books.
I never throw out a book unless it’s ruined or useless (such as a time-sensitive reference work that’s out of date—e.g., I just recycled a 1995 Consumer Reports buying guide), though I do sell or donate piles of them a couple of times a year.
It should surprise no one, given all the above, to learn that I bought three new bookcases at IKEA yesterday.
India, girl! Are you going to be found one day in canyons of stacked-up text?
And really what am I saying? We, here at 7143 Washington, have stacks in corners, in the basement, in the garage loft. What is this need I have to retain?
I have a bag in the basement, with my batch of The Quarterly copies. (If only it were a full set. Just my collection from my first discovering until I couldn’t find them anymore.) I haven’t opened them for years. Yet I still quote, or more likely misquote from them regularly. Many of the words and thoughts within them, a part, now, of my being.
Yet, I couldn’t, for the life of me, let them go.
As long as they make containers to hold them, with other texts I hold dear, I’ll hold them.
You know? One day if or when the world of electricity fails, it will be these very texts that allow us to continue on, yes?
One day if or when the world of electricity fails, it will be these very texts that allow us to continue on, yes?
When that day comes, clusterflock will send its dispatches via speedy couriers, rhythmic pulses pounded on hollow logs, or messages stuffed into bottles cast seaward.
Drumming! Yes! We can get Cindy to give us lessons.
I will, indeed. Although I think everyone is in agreement that my talent lies primarily in my ability to traverse the drums, not play them.
As to the ethics of book handling, I’m afraid I lost my tender feelings for books as sacred objects many years ago. There are books that mean the world to me, and even more that Daryl holds dear, but when you manage bookstores and libraries for a living, you see that most books are just–books. Pages of paper bound together. Heavy fuckers that will hurt you if they get a chance. Mostly produced and marketed by corporate publishing houses whose only concern is the bottom line. I honestly think I’m at the point where I wouldn’t mind disposong of all but about 50 books in our house. (Don’t worry, Daryl, I won’t do anything!)