Lately, I've had the urge to reorganize my books, to put the ones I haven't read towards the front, where I'll read them before the ones I've already read and enjoyed (or not).
Many of my fellow bibliophile friends are sticklers for well-kept books: no creased bindings, no dog-eared pages, no major damage to the book. I'm of the opposite camp: while I am saddened by some damage, especially to vintage tomes, those marks of a well-digested read are as much of an harbinger of memories as the story itself.
In this foray into my hundreds of books (not hyperbole), I came across my copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. The one I actually read from back in 1999. This book is the best example I have of why I find well-worn books so enjoyable.
The cover itself is fairly intact, considering its age and the distances it's traveled:
Oh, Harry. So young and naive and hopeful.
I first heard of this orphaned British boy from my 5th grade homeroom teacher. She read various books aloud to us from time to time, to make sure that we were hearing stories outside of the textbooks we read. I recognize now that it's because her background in elementary education made this second-nature to her, even if it seemed to us "baby-ish" at the time. To be completely frank, it's the one thing I can say I liked about her (she is one of my least favorite teachers, for various interactions we had that pivotal year.)
But I digress. She read to us, chapter by chapter, the exploits of this boy who discovered this secret magical world that he was a part of. Her reading schedule was inconsistent, so it could be weeks before we could read more. As someone who read books often in five sittings or less, this was unbearable for me. During spring break in March 2000, my sister, brother, and I were staying with our MoMo (maternal grandmother). She brought us to visit her sister NanNan and NanNan's longtime boyfriend Harry (that's a whole other ballgame, y'all). As a grandmother, MoMo was also very good at the game of spoiling grandchildren, so it didn't take much to get her to stop by the Books-a-Million near NanNan's house. I knew myself well enough that I got both The Sorceror's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets. (I was right; I finished SS before getting home to Mississippi later that week.)
The back of the book shows what happened after:
I promise, Officer, it was an accident!
I have always been a lender of books. Even now, when there are more than I want to remember that never made their way back to me, I am willing to lend someone books without limit (as long I know how to reach you to remind you to return it...) So I lent the book to others who couldn't wait either to learn of what Harry would do next. This wavy set of pages in the back should be familiar to my fellow clumsy people--the aftermath of a spilled Coke. My memory tells me it was my fault on this one, but that it happened at school, so I think it was after someone returned it to me. The missing chunk of backcover? I needed to write something down.
As I grew older and really began to dive deep into the images and ideas that reading can evoke, I even became okay with writing in books. Harry isn't exempt from this. Notes from a young adult lit course I took senior year of undergrad:
Dumbledore gettin' deep.
The people have questions, Rowling!
I am always available for snarky commentary.
This is why I love books with all their scars intact: they show the reader fully ingesting this work rather than treating it as some unattainable object. Interaction with it, letting it inform your life rather than idolizing it.
Don't get me wrong. I still find plenty of beauty in a book that is well-kept and bound and make sure to keep those books safe and secure--I have a Longfellow collection from the 1900's I keep in a showbox to protect it. It's more, for me at least, of an appreciation of the past and what is irreplaceable while knowing that part of reading without abandon means there is risk of harm to the pages. It's a small price to pay to potentially change how we see the world.