In the third year of my University career, I attended my first lecture of the term from one of my favourite professors. He assessed the class to determine the number of students who were actually English students, and those who were taking the course because they needed an English to fulfill degree requirements. I suppose there were enough non-English students in the class, because he began talking about strategies for getting the most out of the literature we would be reading.

“I don’t know how many of you write in your books, but if you don’t, I would encourage you to begin.” He scanned the room and chuckled. “Yes, I can see most of you English students, your eyes bugging out of your heads. ‘Did he just say write in our books?’” We laughed sheepishly, and he continued.

“If you’re anything like me, you tend to look at books as something sacred. Oh, I remember when I was in University, the worst sound in the world for me was that of a book binding breaking. I would just cringe! But come on people, it’s just a book!” And then in a sudden move, he snatched up one of his poetry books and dashed it to the floor. There was a collective stifled gasp from all of the English students in the room, and then more sheepish laughter. The professor laughed with us and bent down to retrieve the book. “This is what I want you to do,” he said. “Break that binding! Write in those margins! You will get so much more out of what you are reading if you do.”

All of my course texts that term had broken bindings and scribbles in the margins. I have now achieved a happy medium when it comes to my bibliophilistic tendencies. Course texts, or books that I am studying, I am content to make well-used. I will force a book open, and write and underline quite happily. Books that I am reading for pleasure, I take care with. My favourites still end up looking well-loved, but I don’t force them open or dog-ear page corners. It is a balance that I am content with. It is also far better for people trying to to borrow books from me