When I was younger I used to abuse my books. I'd leave them in cars so the spines would melt, I'd drop them in the pool, I'd have an ice cream in one hand and a copy of Hitchhiker's in the other; the pages sticky with sugar.
Sometime later I stopped doing that. I started cherishing the little square things. Keeping them safe, making sure I didn't dog-ear pages, and I would never, not a million years ever, write in a book or highlight a passage. That was a cardinal sin to me.
Yet sometime ago I stopped doing even that. I started to abuse the fuck out of my books again. I started highlighting. I started underlining. I started to write in the margins. I started to break the spines from cracking open the same book of poetry over and over again.
|I'm not that extreme about it.|
Yet. Some part of me still feels a little naughty for doing this. Some part of me wants to take that old battered copy and make it new again. I still keep some books (signed copies, special editions) in excellent shape. I still protect them.
I'm not a full blown "don't crack that book open too far" purest, but I do appreciate shelf wear and tear. Surely I'm not the only one? So this week's question is: why the f*ck are you such a book purest?