Books tell stories.
Fact.
That’s their job. It’s accepted, it’s a “truth universally acknowledged” ("Pride and Prejudice"). Books tell stories. We read the stories. We go about our lives with the seeds of these tales in our brains and our hearts, and think about them from time to time, or perhaps never again.
But there’s more to the story than what the author typed out on their computers. There’s the story of the reader, or readers. Your own life story is captured between the pages of every book you’ve ever read.
I have a clear memory of a man riding the London Underground’s Eastbound Piccadilly Line at around noon on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, in November 2014. He was a tall, large man, the kind of man that took up more space than he needed just because he could. He had a crew cut, dark hair and a scratchy looking beard. There was a tattoo peeking out from his right shirt cuff, but I couldn’t tell what it was. While looking at his hands I saw they were yellowed, slightly, from years of rolling cigarettes and smoking them. I knew he rolled his own because there was one stuck behind his ear and tobacco scattered around his feet. I wish I could describe his eyes to you, whether they were dark and mean or soft yet alert, but I never saw them. He kept his eyes trained down on the book in his hand: "Candide," a satire written by the French philosopher Voltaire in 1759. I read "Candide" in AP Literature during my senior year of high school. It’s funny, yes, but not normally a book one would pick up for pleasure like "Harry Potter" or "Fifty Shades of Grey" or even something like "The Great Gatsby." I still wonder why that man, that bear of a man with the arm tattoos and tobacco stained fingers, was reading "Candide," what he thought of it, and what he did with the book afterwards.
That’s what I’m always curious about; how books came to people and where they go afterwards. For my American literature course this semester, we’re reading "The Bastard out of Carolina" by Dorothy Allison. I bought the book used, of course, because I am a broke college student. I write my name and the year in every book I buy, and when I went to write in "Bastard" I found this:
“July ‘93
To Mom,
Wishes for a speedy recovery
Love,
Alice”
Who’s Alice? What happened to her mom? Why this book? Unfortunately, Alice's mother did not write anything else in the book. It's free of annotations, except for the ones I'm adding now. My favorite kinds of books are used books, books that tell me the story of the reader before me.
I started writing in books and annotating them when I was in ninth grade. I had gotten a copy of "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" out my town’s public library that had whole paragraphs boxed out in pencil, sentences underlined, stars, question marks, comments scribbled in the margins, the whole critical she-bang. I specifically remember reading the following sentence that had been underlined in thick pencil: “I am both happy and sad at the same time, and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.” My breath caught in my throat and my heart thumped loudly against my ribcage. Someone else understood. Not just one person, but two people; the author and the reader before me. I was amazed. One person (or perhaps more?) thought all of these passages were important, that they meant something. While I read through the book and this person’s musings, I found myself wondering why they found certain lines appealing. What was happening in their life? What were their beliefs? Why did this book mean so much to them? Were they a different person after reading it?
I certainly was. I added my own annotations to the book and finished it, relishing the fact that the next person that got hold of it would have two different perspectives to read the book with them in real time. I’m selfish to think everyone would appreciate this. I’m sure many would find it annoying. I, however, find it magical. There’s a sense of intimacy. You travel into the world of the book, but you also have a companion.
There’s a quote from the movie “The History Boys” that has always spoken to my personal philosophy about reading:
“The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”
To me, this applies to both the author and the readers that have come before you. You continue the legacy held within the pages of every book you pick up. The transfer of ideas, of knowledge, of inspiration from author to reader is intensified when it becomes a conversation between several different readers. You’re welcomed into a community of readers who think like you or could perhaps show you a different perspective, you’re introduced to characters who represent your social identity, you’re shown that the things you dream and crave are possible. Reading connects you to the author and the readers, to the characters, and to yourself.
The book can take you on a journey, but it has also been on a journey itself. Passed through many hands, many homes, a book is privy to the most private and intimate moments of our lives. The times we cry in the dark in the middle of the night, when we throw ourselves onto our beds in happy heaps after a first date, the nights we sit on the floor in the middle of the room trying to remember how to feel something, anything, because it’s terrifying to feel so empty. Our books know these moments, they know our fears and our hopes and desires, because we write them in the pages. A sentence I underline when I’m upset about a boy may have passed unnoticed if I was already in a happy relationship. A paragraph I etched a small smiley face next to may have meant nothing if I was not already in a euphoric mood. That’s why I write in books; books that I own to remember the time in my life I read them, and books I don’t own in case someone’s attention needs to be brought to a point they may otherwise have ignored.
Young adult author John Green once said "Books belong to their readers." So own them. Write in them. They belong to you even if you pass them on to someone else. Share your story with the next person.
Books tell stories.
But often it’s not one simple, linear, black and white tale bound together with glue.
It’s so much more.
