“Hey Mom, what is Club Mondo and why were you going there on a Thursday night?,” my eleven-year-old son asks as he shows me page 117 in my copy of David Cooperfield that I read and annotated while studying in England. Before I could answer, he asked and why does your underlining stop around page 320. Did you not finish the book?”
Lesson learned: Need to check the margins of my books before replacing my grounded (already TV-free, restricted from computers) son’s fantasy and sci-fi books with scrawl-filled personal copies of Victorian literature classics. (This technique will be featured in chapter three of my book, Parenting for Dorks Who Astonishingly Managed to Breed).
That embarrassing moment prompted me to peruse the margins and covers of my other books. I discovered a rather long exchange with one of my classmates about our professor on the inside cover of an American Literature anthology that went something like this:
—So, do you think he combs his beard?
—No, do you think he bathes?
—Probably not.
— I think he is the real Thomas Pynchon.
—Why?
—Only the author could be that in love with his books.
This furtive between the covers conversation took place in 1993. To this day, there are no still pictures of Thomas Pynchon, other than a few from his teen years. Could the real Thomas Pynchon be writing his next book in a tiny office at a small liberal arts school in Central Pennsylvania? Maybe.
When I wasn’t speculating about the identity of American authors, sometimes I would actually write comments about the text, which I preferred over highlighting or underlining. It is too easy to get entranced by gorgeous language or high drama that results in dripping yellow fingers and a page so bright that its glow can be seen from miles away in the bucolic environment that I escaped in favor of a different, but almost identical, bucolic landscape enhanced by a college. Taking the time to think of a response is more erudite than mindlessly underlining, except in my case with comments like “Gatsby is really pathetic,” “Hemingway is a sexist ass,” and “Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant” in response to Crime and Punishment. Not exactly worthy of scholarship like Sylvia Plath’s earmarked and scribbled upon copy of the Great Gatsby where she wrote phrases, such as “stage property” and “no real relation to child” in the paragraphs that focus on Daisy and Tom Buchanan’s relationship with their daughter, Pammy. This is why her copy of Great Gatsby is located in the archives of the University of South Carolina and mine is on the bottom of the overflow book crates in our garage, absorbing stench and growing mold.
However, to buck my trend of puerile and insipid statements inside my books, I did write myself a note on the flyleaf of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, “Must make brilliant and beautiful commentary in margins. Be smart and witty.” Off to a great intellectual start as you see with that message.
Since my literary commentary offers no insight into the history of literature, world affairs or my personal depth, the treasures inside my books’ margins are the notes and scribbles that capture a particular moment. Sometimes I doodled in the top margin or sketched self-portraits. Not really self-portraits, just my eyes, over and over again. Sometimes I wrote myself notes and reminders like “Call dad” or “Stop touching his arms. He will think you are a freak.” Yes, he thought I was freak; too much arm touching resulted in a “B” for the semester in Critical Theory, but he married me despite my freakish ways.
Much like my notes reveal insights of a past consciousness, personalized inscriptions on the front endpapers emblazoned by characters from past romances capture personal history and shed light on the experiences that led me to my current place. Poetic in theory. But, in reality, seeing writing from ex-loves irritated my husband. What should one do with books that were received as gifts and contain the handwriting of former sweethearts? These bibliographic possessions caused many disagreements in the early years of my marriage before kids and careers when we engaged in ridiculous arguments probably just so we could make-up later. Although my husband and I have an enormous merged library, all the books in question are mine. The waitresses, who my husband banged in college, did not know how to read, so therefore, he never received books as gifts (although one hook-up managed to purchase a Hallmark card and etch a cliché message about shaking the Earth or something). Given my penchant for bibliophilists with used book store addictions, I possessed many books that held memories and secrets from the past. My husband wanted to exorcise all the ghosts from our book collection. Bickering, crying, pouting, and whining. None of my methods worked until I learned the art of holding out. My book collection has remained intact, and my husband still has that vapid card.
Even though some people believe it is practically sacrilege to write in book, I find that the real beauty, history, and life of a novel can be found in the margins. Words simply appear stagnant on a printed page framed by blank margins until someone reads them and responds in the sidelines, forever becoming one with the story.
