I used to always read with a pen in my hand, as if the author and I were in a conversation.

I never minded the random scribblings of other readers, found them interesting in fact. It is a truth universally acknowledged that people write the darndest things in the margins of their books.

Reading, for me, is like this: consumptive, pleasing, calming, as much as edifying. It's how I feel after a good dinner. That's why I do it so often: It feels wonderful. The book is mind and I insert myself into it, cover it entire, ear my way through every last slash and dot. That's something you can do with a book, unlike television or movies or the Internet. You can eat it, or mark it, like a dog does on a hydrant.

It ain't just about writing on some documents,
author writes on to the readers' heart and mind.

Certain bookworms eat books. Eat them, swear in them, spill things on them.

The good, the admirable reader identifies himself not with the boy or the girl in the book, but with the mind that conceived and composed that book.