I've been lucky to always love reading and have access to books - I'd check out stacks from the library, get them as gifts. When I graduated from picture books to chapter books, I started collections of the Babysitters' Club and Goosebumps. Paperbacks lined my shelves, spines so creased you could hardly read the titles.
I broke the spines of books I owned while I was reading; I dog-eared pages to keep my place or to make note of a sentence I particularly liked. It didn't seem to matter when you had over fifty thin paperbacks on your shelves, books that belong to you and would be read and re-read by you alone. You'd think, loving books as I do, that I would treat them as if they were holy. But I used and abused them. That's not to say I'm careless - aside from the one time I left a library book in the rain when I was eight
(and cried over for hours), I've never lost or ruined a book.
On my eleventh birthday, I asked for a book I'd already read several times, checked out from both the school and public libraries whenever it was available. My parents must have taken note of how much I liked the book, because when it came time to get a copy of my own, they bought me a hardback. A beautiful, pristine hardback. I'm not sure if it was my first, but it's the first I remember. I carefully wrote my name and the date in the corner of the front page and took it to my room.
This is a turning point, I told myself.
I'm going to treat this book like it's precious, I'm going to treat all books like they're precious.
I found a spot for it on the top shelf, pushed the worn paperbacks to the side so I could slide in my newest gift. I met a little resistance, thought the shelf was too full, pushed a bit harder. I heard a faint rip. My heart sank and I pulled the book back out.
There was a cut across one word of the title. I stuck my hand against the side of the shelf and found a nail, just barely peeking through the wood.
The book wasn't ruined, not by far, especially not when you consider how I treated my paperbacks. The dust jacket had a superficial scratch, not reaching the hardback cover itself. The cover design was graffiti on a brick wall, so one could even argue that the tear fit right in. But I couldn't see any of that; I felt sick to my stomach.
I got over it, of course. I read the book several times before moving on to other books, new books, so many books. It's remained one of my favorites, and when I recently took it from the shelf to re-read, I felt the scratch and everything returned to my mind, crystal clear. And I realized that could be part of the reason I've never liked hardbacks. They're so expensive, first off, and bulky to hold, especially when you carry books with you anywhere and everywhere. The dust jacket is brilliant for keeping your place, but when you're reading, it flops around and loosens your grip.
I don't abuse paperbacks
(as much) anymore; I've stopped dog-earing and started using bookmarks, I keep a scrap of paper nearby to write down page numbers of my favorite sentences. But, if given a choice, I prefer used paperbacks. Handed down, with notes and marks and folds from others, they make me feel less guilty if I toss them around a bit myself. After all, the story is still intact, and that's all that matters.
