How Do You Handle Your Books?

On Richard Avedon, marginalia, and more.

Hi friends.

The other night I had some friends over to the new house. We were warming the new house up a bit, and I was happy to have people around after working so hard these past few months to make at least a few of the rooms livable and presentable. I made Rotel and everything, and we all stood there and ate it like raccoons.

Of course, having houseguests means all your things are on display. Your art, your furniture, your books, your taste. Everyone I know is a reader, so books were examined. I am not shy about this. Come look, let’s talk.

Eventually someone picked up this ancient Richard Avedon book from my coffee table: the classic In the American West, which documents Avedon’s groundbreaking photography exhibit of the same name. I’d seen the touring show at the Art Institute in Chicago when I was in high school and had gotten the book then.

The whole experience of being a kid bordering on adulthood, an aspiring artist herself, taking the train downtown, seeing an exhibit in this impressive space, and then owning this beautiful book afterward—all of it had been hugely influential on me at the time.

And then there were the photos: these gritty yet loving, highly detailed images that opened my eyes to an American existence that was so different than my own. There were so many more stories out there. If I could just finish up this part of my life, I could find them already.

The book had traveled with me everywhere after that, college and onward, and now, forty years later, it still sat in my front room, waiting to be examined. Even as it showed the wear and tear of it all. The cover was curled at the end, and someone had spilled something on it at some point, probably at a party just like the one I was having. It had just grown worn and battered over time, all those moves, all those cities. Although the interior pages were still intact.

“I wish I had known to take better care of it,” I said.

But everyone agreed it was better that way, with use.

Of course, I hadn’t known about anything like a first edition market in my youth. At the time, I bought most of my (paperback) books at a used bookstore up the road with change I filched from a giant jar in my parents’ bedroom. Books were meant to be read and used and loved. (They still are.)

I suppose my attitude changed when I started going to readings and getting books signed by the author and wanting to keep them as a treasure. I began to take pristine care of my books to the point of not engaging with them at all, not folding a page or underlining a sentence, and instead transferring my ideas about them to my journals. Even after I began to understand that so many books could come and go because of remaindering and pulping, I held on tight to them. The books that I kept on my shelves had real value to me as an object and I wanted them to be perfect.

Then, a few years ago, I house-sat for two great readers (one of whom was also a great writer) and tried to make my way through their well-loved collection of books. The author in the house recommended several books to me to read. But their library was dripping with marginalia. In fact, I found it virtually unreadable because so many of their books were underlined. I would focus too much on what they had focused on, and it impacted my ability to maintain a clear, open mind.

After a while I gave up and went to the bookstore downtown and bought some new books instead. (You don’t have to tell me twice to buy new books.)

But after that experience, I’ve noticed I’ve been roughing up my books again. Underlining a bit, starring things, and also folding the corners of pages to keep track of where I’m reading, but also maybe to remind me of a page to return to in the future.

Possibly this is connected to getting older. Maybe it’s just that life is too short to try and maintain things perfectly. Maybe I need to touch and interact with things differently lately. Maybe there is a slowness or a tenderness that comes with marking up your books.

But also maybe I’m thinking who are these books for anyway except for me?