Since college, I have been an underliner, a highlighter, a note-in-the margin writer of text. I can remember the exact time this habit developed in me–down to the exact book. It was An American Childhood by Annie Dillard. In fact, if you look at my copy of the book, which I saved from my college years, you can see the exact moment it happened. On page 118, I circled the word “litany.” Prior to this encircling, the pages are devoid of underlining. After this line (and within every other book I owned thereafter) the pages are riddled with my marks and comments.

I look back at my own comments when I reread a book. Sometimes I cannot recall the exact mind-frame I had that compelled me to highlight something. Sometimes my margin notes are mysterious jargon I cannot figure out. More often though, I do remember what I was thinking at the time, and my current rereading self chides my past self for being so trite/underdeveloped. My current self sometimes even writes a scathing update margin note under the previous one. But my current self appreciates the effort of the close reading exercises. I like my old margin notes; it’s like a personal diary directly intermingled with what I was reading. And while, like any diary, some entries are cringe-worthy, I love how my interaction with the text is saved in my books for posterity.

I read to maintain sustainable meaning out of a long-passed experience. This experience was transient, and probably for all parties involved save me, forgotten. But even for me, who remembers the past quite well, specific experiences will lose relevancy as the years plod on.

But if The Experience left me to be a good, thoughtful reader, then I can carry this skill forward with me to this day, and apply it to anything I read. And in turn, I can grab onto The Experience and make it current, meaningful, and with me always.