 I like funny poems, and I think this one is funny. It's called Marginalia by Billy Collins. Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author, raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard or Conor Cruz O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand. Dismissive. Nonsense. Please. Hop. That kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote, don't be a mini alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest, needing to leave only their blade footprints along the shore of the page. One sprawls metaphor next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of irony, 50 times outside the paragraphs of a modest proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely they shout to Dunn-Skotis and James Baldwin. Yes, bullseye, my man. Checkmarks, asterisks and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written man versus nature at the margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just lays in an armchair turning pages. We pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the gospels, brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page. Anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him and read in Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye. I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a Davenport in my parents' living room. And I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed. When I found on one page a few greasy looking smears, and next to them written in soft pencil by a beautiful girl I could tell, whom I would never meet, part of the egg salad stains, but I'm in love. I'm in love. I'm in love.