I like to annotate books as I read. Highlighting with underlines, asterisks, and margin notes.
The exquisite sentence.
The sparkling section of dialogue.
The repeated motif or developing theme.
The stunning twist of plot.
The use of an unexpected simile.
The early mention of a possible ‘Chekhov’s gun’ – though it may come in the form of a crossbow, knife, or paperweight.
It’s an interesting paradox that in the act of scribbling the reading experience is enhanced, perhaps through greater comprehension?
I get the sense of being more immersed in the writing. Attuned to its nuances.
The reward of making annotations, months or years later, is picking up a novel and re-discovering the moments that moved me.
Because of these invaluable hieroglyphic markings, I don’t lend out my books.
Borrowers might judge that I have defaced the books. Vandalised the sanctity of the page.
For me, though, I have left a bread-crumb trail of precious gems.
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