Portland Magazine
October 24, 2019
by Shannon Mayer
I live in a house divided, where a friendly skirmish over principle is ever at-the-ready. The scuffle is about book margins. “Books are sacrosanct,” my beloved tells the children. “Only a Neanderthal would scribble in the margins!”
“Write,” I say, “Write!” Record your thoughts, your questions, your applause or angst, however the text moves you. Respond. React. Engage. Leave your legacy—in pencil or in ink if you are so bold—a reminder that you walked the path of the pages, that you were more than just a passive reader.
One of the most famous of margin notes, at least among mathematically dexterous readers, is Fermat’s last theorem, found after his death in the margin of a copy of Arithmetica, one of a series of books on algebra by Hellenistic mathematician Diophantus of Alexandria. Fermat proposes in the margin that a particular algebraic equation has no integer solutions and then states simply, “I have discovered a truly marvelous demonstration of this proposition that this margin is too narrow to contain.” A bold and intriguing claim, providing a glimpse of a conversation across the chasm of time between two great mathematical minds. Courteous too, if you think about it, this brief note—like an X on a treasure map, left to be discovered, enticing other explorers to join the journey and find the proof of his claim. His margin notes suggest there is treasure to be found. Will you pursue it? It will prove to be a journey of hundreds of years. Neither compass nor map will guide the way. Ingenuity, mathematical acumen, persistence—they are the tools of this trade.
Among the most beautiful of margin notes must surely be the artwork and embellishments found in the margins of Medieval manuscripts. Illuminated manuscripts they are called, for their vivid colors and for the gold and silver foil often used to make the artwork radiant. But, perhaps more aptly, illuminated for the way the images capture and enlighten the spiritual imagination of the reader. Such margin notes are the work of scribes who, in the nimble words of poet Billy Collins (in his poem “Marginalia”), were “anonymous men catching a ride into the future / on the vessel more lasting than themselves.”
The margins of my Bible are filled with marginalia. Like souvenirs collected on a long journey, the insights, reflections, questions, and dates that mark the pages are monuments commemorating encounters when the written Word became, for me, the Living Word; Emmanuel, God with us.
A favorite treasure in the margins of my Bible is a scattering of names each linked to a scripture, reminding me of the many friends who have graced my life. Small remembrances, a name, sometimes a date, tucked in alongside a verse, prompting me to pray for those whose lives have been woven together with mine for a season and a lifetime. These notes honor a legacy of friendship. For Carolyn, from Psalm 18—“Thy gentleness makes me strong”—a Psalm of David and a reflection on God’s way of love, mirrored in her gift of love given to a bold and confident daughter. For Eric, from Psalm 1—“His delight is in the law of the Lord…he will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in its season”—for how a lifetime of faithfulness cultivates fruitfulness. For my youngest girl, from James 1—“And let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing”—a reminder, at the beginning of the journey into the vast and complex world, that joy and trial can be gifts in equal measure. For Rick, just one word, the adverb “as,” circled in purple ink in John 15, a reminder of a conversation about what it might look like to love as Jesus loves, a conversation that changed my faith, and my life, in profound and unexpected ways. Margin notes, indeed. My own illuminated manuscript. Assuredly, a hint of something marvelous that the margin is too narrow to contain.
Dog-eared pages? Now that’s another matter entirely. Only a Neanderthal would fold over the corner of a book.
Physics professor SHANNON MAYER is the co-editor of Awaken the Stars, an essay collection by UP faculty about spirited university teaching.
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