There is a specific kind of magic found only in the $5.00 bin of a dusty secondhand bookstore. I’m talking about Used Book Marginalia—the notes, doodles, and coffee stains left behind by the book's previous inhabitants.
While some people think writing in books is a sacrilege (the "Don't Crease the Spine" Police), I’ve come to realize that a used book is actually a conversation across time.
The Types of "Previous Owners" You’ll Meet
When you open a pre-loved paperback, you aren't just reading the author’s words; you’re ghost-hunting. Here are the most common spirits I’ve encountered:
The Aggressive Underliner: This person owned a yellow highlighter and they weren't afraid to use it. Sometimes they highlight entire pages, leaving me to wonder: If everything is important, is nothing important?
The Breakup Survivor: You find a frantic "TRUE" or "SO HIM" scribbled in the margins of a poetry book. You can practically smell the cloves and hear the Adele playing in the background of 2012.
The Accidental Archivist: These are the best. They use anything except a bookmark. I once found a 1994 bus ticket to Chicago, a pressed four-leaf clover, and—no joke—a recipe for "Aunt Linda’s Famous Potato Salad" tucked between chapters 4 and 5.
The Argumentative Scholar: The person who writes "Incorrect!" or "See Smith, 1982" in the margins of a non-fiction book. I love the confidence of someone picking a fight with a dead philosopher in a $2 Penguin Classic.
Why I’ve Stopped Being Afraid of the Pen
I used to be a "Keep It Pristine" reader. I wanted my books to look like they had never been touched by human hands. But lately, I’ve started leaving my own trail.
Writing in a book is like carving your name into a tree. It says, "I was here, and this sentence moved me." It turns a mass-produced object into a personal relic. There is something deeply comforting about reading a heart-wrenching scene and seeing a faint, dried tear-circle on the page from someone who felt the exact same thing twenty years ago.
A Note to Future Readers: If you ever find my copy of The Great Gatsby, please ignore the grocery list I wrote on the back flyleaf. I was hungry, and it was the only paper I had. The eggs were essential to the themes of the novel.
I want to know: Do you treat your books like sacred relics, or are you an underliner? And what is the weirdest thing you've ever found tucked between the pages?
