The Joy of Borrowing Other People’s Books
Last week I found myself in need of a good book. Even though my shelves were spilling over with unread prose, none of it was hitting me right. So, I asked my boyfriend for a recommendation. He left the bedroom and walked toward his systemless stack, shouting questions as he went along.
“Fiction or nonfiction?”
“Hmm, I don’t care…nothing too dark, though.”
He murmured to himself, “Ok, something light.”
“Not too fluffy, though!”
More shuffling. A few footsteps, and he appeared at my bedside presenting a vintage copy of “Runaway Horses” by Yukio Mishima. I had never heard of it. I turned it over to read the back cover and was daunted by mentions of “depression,” “political violence,” and “radical social change.” But I was tired of reading fluff, so I started it.
A few pages in, I asked, “Why did you pick this for me?”
It was incredibly well-written, set in Japan (which endlessly fascinates me), and centered around politics and culture- two of my favorite topics. But he answered only that he had been meaning to read it and that Yukio was a “fascinating guy.” So, maybe there wasn’t as much to his thought process as I guessed.
Still, reading a book that he had chosen for himself and then passed on to me felt like it had extra layers of mystery and warmth. I wondered what had led him to buy this book, and when he would go through it himself. I would light up at a passage that mentioned something we discussed yesterday, but refrain from showing him so he could enjoy it in its context.
And reading a borrowed book that someone has read is an experience all its own. Pencil lines point out the lender’s favorite passages and allude to their thoughts when they read the chapter. I imagine them having a lazy morning or a late night, re-reading standout phrases or speeding through voraciously.
Reading a book an acquaintance gave me that changed his life gave every word extra weight. Though we don’t know each other well, I examined his life before and after he read the book and admired the differences. I wasn’t just reading the book and having my own experience. I was seeing how it had transformed someone else, and it made the book infinitely heftier. And I was reading the book. The copy that set the new chapter of his life in motion now lives on my shelves.
When the lender is a close friend, I find myself discussing plotlines and lamenting missed opportunities. Or bonding over our favorite elements, like I did when a friend lent her Sally Rooney collection to me. I regretted the sad reflection of modern dating and affairs in her books, while Sara loved it because it reflected real life.
All the while, I took extra care not to break the binding or spill my tea on her copies. Always applying extra reverence for the content and the vessel when it comes from those I admire.
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