I can’t write in the margins.

This is not a euphemism. Or a metaphor.

I quite literally mean I cannot bring myself to write in a book. The practice has always baffled me. It’s apparently so common that the term “marginalia” (marginal notes) has been around since the 19th century and is Latin.

Of course it would be Latin.

I’m currently reading Letter to a Future Lover: Marginalia, Errata, Secrets, Inscriptions, and Other Ephemera Found in Libraries by Ander Monson. It’s part found object part poetic essay. In truth it is lovely.

And yet I find myself thinking “Who are these animals who write in books?” I understand the urge to want to write down quotes, or words to look up, while reading. I do it all the time. In a reporter’s notebook. So as not to befoul the book with my bizarre stream of consciousness for the next reader.

It may come as no surprise that I am also reading Manners by Kate Spade, an update on Emily Post.

Were you to look at my bookcase each title seems unopened. Which is not the case, I just don’t bend or break my books. Not because of an obsessive nature, but out of respect for the hard work that went into them.

My one omission to this rule is the inscription. I was taught by my grandfather, a man of letters, that when one is gifting a book, whether new or repurposed, an inscription was required. In fact to leave one out was rather gauche in his view.

But I cannot, will not, write in margins. 

Other than my own.