Life, it’s been said, is one big book.
Should life indeed be so, most of us writers can only claim to be book critics. Possessing the book critic’s skill, we need not read more than a few pages to churn out a pile of commentary and wrap up a book review in no time.
Yet, another type of person exists in this world. These people believe that the purpose of reading a book is not actually to write a criticism or an introduction. Possessing the casualness and nonchalance of spare-time diversion seekers,
1 they browse at their own leisurely pace. When an opinion strikes them, they jot down a few notes or write a question mark or exclamation mark in the blank margins of the book, akin to “eyebrow comments” in the top margins of old Chinese books or marginalia in foreign books. These piecemeal, spontaneous impressions do not constitute their verdict on the entire book, and having been written in passing they may contradict one another or go overboard. But the authors don’t bother about this. After all, for them it’s a diversion, unlike the book critic, who shoulders the weighty tasks of guiding the reader and chiding the author. Who has the ability and patience for such things?
If life is a big book, then the essays that follow can only be regarded as having been written in the margins of life. What a big book! It’s hard to read all at once, and even if the margins have been written on, there’s still plenty of blank space left.
