The Confidence to Mark a Book
Above are two pages from the same book.
Which one engaged me the most?
It’s obvious at a glance.
Why then, did I hate writing in my books a few years ago?
Why did I sacrifice so many precious conversations with my favourite authors?
Why was I afraid?
I write this email because you might be in that same boat, anchored down by the false image of 'mint condition.'
But before the practical bits, we should study this goal:
Why write in your books in the first place?
Under a video I uploaded a few weeks back, someone commented that marking books is "performative" and a waste of time.
I agree.
But you must beware of absolutes, especially on the internet.
He’s right, but with only a fraction of the truth -not that I claim to hold it either.
Flashback to your time in the classroom. You furiously highlight blocks of text in your study guides, half confident, half nervous for the exam that looms closer.
It feels productive.
“I gave special attention to the big points, so suuurely they will stick.”
I wish that too, but do you remember the last sentence you underlined?
Or any, in fact?
Yesterday morning, I read some of Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac. The prose was gorgeous, and I ran my pencil across at least fifty lines, but I can’t recall anything they said as I write this.
I’m not delusional.
It’s not a fool’s errand either.
I have good reason to continue despite not remembering anything, and you’ll see that at the end.
Many note-taking techniques are totally useless because nothing is ever done with them.
Who cares if you highlight the best ideas if you’ll never see them again?
Your fancy symbols mean nothing if they are doomed to be forgotten on your bookshelf.
That’s performative.
And it’s what I did for years, oblivious to the fact that it only felt rewarding, but did not offer me any real understanding in return.
Before I get too dramatic, you’ll be glad to know the alternative is not only fruitful, but fun too.
There’s a rich collection of techniques to choose from, and just like a lazy day of window shopping, you can choose the ones you like best.
Rephrase the author’s ideas. Your mind likes to play tricks. It wants you to think you understand, even if you grasp only a faint wisp of the message.
Write a point in your own words, then tell me you understand. If that’s a struggle, it’s a good sign the idea hasn’t condensed yet and needs more work.
Talk to the author. We both know the scholarly types are a bit weird (yes, even you and I). We’ve all got our quirks- our different flavours of bizarre -and this sounds like another.
But fear not, because there’s no telepathy and no phantom authors to summon. When I say ‘talk to the author,’ I mean write to them -your thoughts, opinions and remarks.
It’s easy to approach a book like the humble student who’s meant to shut up and listen, but that’s a dated view of education, and we ought to kick it to the grave.
A productive reading is a discussion.
Authors already talk to each other through their work. They add to the long conversation which began thousands of years ago, when our ancestors first sat around a fire to share their tales.
You are part of that conversation.
A debate-member.
A speaker.
A voice.
Write like it, and your thoughts will be given the permission to flow.
Ask Questions. The Bible puts it better than I ever could: ‘Ask, and it shall be given you: seek, and you shall find: knock, and it shall be opened to you.’
Whatever the hell you want. I write my top three here because I think they’re essentials in any reader’s toolkit, but I’m no scholar or sage.
I’ve got unique styles that make sense to me in my head. I’ll doodle diagrams, use symbols and even jot down ideas in a separate notepad.
But you are different. Only you know the four corners of your mind, so no matter what the content creators send out in their official decrees™, your judgement is final.
None of these techniques are ‘performative’ because they help you think.
Like a general in his war room, you get an overview of the debate, but can also narrow down on the details, arranging your thoughts like pawns on a map.
Even underlining is a brilliant approach if you return to them later to reflect or write.
When I underline sentences, I don’t pretend it helps me in the moment.
It doesn’t.
But like the grey squirrels in your autumn garden, I am marking the spots I should return to for intellectual nourishment.
I then quote these passages, explain them to myself and elaborate with my own two cents.
That’s where the real learning happens.
This is the prize at the end. Now we challenge the original question -what can you do to tackle your fear of writing in books?
My first slice of advice is stolen from the man who helped me change my ways. In a single line, he gifted me the confidence to let my pencil glide.
“Marking up a book is not an act of mutilation but of love.”
Mortimer J. Adler, author of How to Read a Book
I cringe at street graffiti. It’s sad to see entire streets disrespected with meaningless, ugly scrawls of paint, all to please the ego of some teenagers.
But a beautiful mural on the other hand…
That’s art.
Same walls, same paint, but one is aimed towards a higher good.
One is ugly, the other is not.
One is pointless, the other is not.
One is thoughtful, the other is not.
The same difference lies in your book notes.
You aren’t a vandal for wanting more.
What appears to be a ‘mess’ is, in reality, a constellation of your thoughts, working together to produce something greater than themselves.
Many of history’s masterpieces came from jumbled scraps of messy notes, so there is no reason to equate roughness with quality.
Besides, you can take all the time in the world to make your annotations neat.
The only exception to this philosophy is with rare editions, or extra fancy bindings, but we can forget those for the most part.
I stumbled across another great quote from Charles Van Doren, co-author of How to Read a Book. It’s too good not to include, and reflects the same premise.
“Marking a book is literally an expression of your differences or your agreements with the author. It's the highest respect you can pay him."
Another idea I love, from the same duo, is how marking your books gives you true ownership.
You may ‘own’ the book according to law, receipt and all, but if it is indistinguishable from the next copy, I could swap them and you wouldn’t bat an eye.
When you write, you print your legacy onto paper.
Machiavelli’s The Prince is no more. Now, it’s your analysis of Machiavelli’s The Prince.
The thoughts are yours. Nobody else owns this copy.
Once you close the last page of a book, you create an entirely new one.
When your older, wiser self returns to reread the book. . . they can’t, because it’s not the same fresh copy from the first read through.
You’re lucky enough to see the history of your mind in the margins, everything your past self had to say.
Even more pleasing, your eyes open to a new meaning behind the text.
Ideas which were invisible a year ago now scream out at you.
“Ohhh, that makes sense.”
It's the sweetest moment for any reader, and it comes easy when you mark your books.
This pair of arguments was enough to convince me, and I took the plunge. After a whole lifetime of treating my books like ancient relics, I earned the confidence to leave my mark.
Easier said than done though.
Even if you agree with me, I’m not naive enough to assume you can flick the switch of a lifelong habit.
Still, it may just feel wrong to write in a book.
So I’d like to offer some practical steps to lessen the blow and reduce the sacrilege you have to go through.
My favourite point comes from my bedroom walls.
Maybe you noticed in the videos, but the wall behind me is a design atrocity.
The paint is faded, there's faint smears everywhere, all on top of the countless dents, flakes and scratches.
It’s due for a fresh coat.
When I move furniture around, it’s easy to scrape the wall by accident.
It’s not that I’m clumsy, but that I just don’t care.
What’s another mark? It doesn’t look out of place among the hundred others.
But my tune will change as soon as it gets a vibrant new colour. I’ll be damn cautious and watch my every move around it.
I find this same attitude in my books.
You and I both love mint condition. Nothing beats the sleek edges, the glowing white pages and the fresh new book smell.
It’s easy to fear any damage or ‘graffiti,’ which chips that neatness away.
But what if you buy a second-hand book?
The cover is faded by sunlight and wrinkled by use.
The pages are kissed yellow by the air.
And notes from past owners give you a vague but intimate look into their life.
Are you still afraid to write?
In my mind, it’s far easier to mark up a book if you aren’t the first to do so, and it's already a little worn out.
Even if noteless, there’s no mint condition to preserve, nor any clean white pages to blot.
Just like my bedroom wall, an extra few marks won't make it any less beat up.
It’s second-hand before, and second-hand after.
Plus they’re dirt cheap too, so if you’ve got any charity shops nearby (or thrift shops, if you’re American), it’s worth a browse.
It feels wrong to end this email with unwritten tips still in my mind, so here’s a list of the more minor ones you can use to get comfortable with marking books.
Use a pencil. It’s not graffiti if it’s temporary. I’m too lazy to erase mistakes, but I know I can, which is enough to comfort me.
Be neat. Bring a ruler, a sharpener and even index tabs -marking your books can be aesthetically pleasing if you make it so.
Use sticky notes. I find them finicky, but I know you can get transparent ones which let you bring the pages to life with your ideas, all while they remain unscathed.
Use a separate notebook. I love to annotate, but squeezing my ogreish handwriting into the slim margins is not always ideal. It’s nice to have some room to breathe elsewhere, where you can write as much as you please and easily reference back to the page number you talk of.
Buy two of the same book. Damn -didn’t know we had a baller reading this. It’s lavish, it’s excessive, it’s beautifully aristocratic, but who says you can’t? One can be a display copy, and the other can be the sacrificial lamb, ready to be annotated without reservation.
I know I'm missing some great advice here, so if you have any clever pointers for me, I'd love to hear them.
The same goes for your story too -did you always write in books? Was it easy for you to start? Hell, maybe you still don't dare to and that's fine in itself.
Until then, may your pencil fly across the page and your mind come to life,
Odysseas