Books are messy. If you disagree, you probably haven't read Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman. Most people treat their home libraries like museums—pristine spines, dust-free jackets, and a strict "no dog-earing" policy that feels more like a religious commandment than a lifestyle choice. Fadiman doesn't care about your museum. She grew up in a house where books were more like family members or perhaps slightly unruly pets. They were written in, eaten over, and occasionally used as a makeshift piece of furniture.
Honestly, that's the magic of Ex Libris.
Fadiman didn't set out to write a dry academic treatise on the history of the printing press or a stuffy guide on how to build a collection of rare first editions. Instead, she gave us a collection of essays that feel like sitting in a high-ceilinged library at 2:00 AM with a glass of scotch and a friend who knows way too much about the nuances of the word "preachiness."
It’s about the weirdness of bibliophilia. It’s about the way we integrate words into our physical lives.
The War Between the Courtly and the Carnal
One of the most famous bits in Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman is her distinction between "courtly" and "carnal" lovers of books. It’s a genius framework. Think about it: are you the type of person who opens a paperback only halfway to avoid creasing the spine? That’s courtly. You respect the book as a physical object, an untouchable artifact.
Then there are the carnal readers. These people—Fadiman included—treat books like tools. They break the spines so the book stays open on the table. They scribble "Nonsense!" in the margins of a political biography. They leave crumbs in the gutters.
Fadiman recounts how her family would practically devour books. Her father, the legendary Clifton Fadiman, didn't just read; he interacted. There’s this great story about how a "true" book lover can’t help but notice typos even in the most prestigious editions. For the Fadimans, a typo wasn't just a mistake; it was an invitation to pick up a pen and correct the universe.
This brings up a weirdly personal question for the reader: can you really love something if you’re afraid to touch it? Fadiman suggests that the most well-loved books are the ones that look like they’ve been through a war. Water stains from a bathtub reading session. Sand from a beach trip in 1994. These aren't defects. They're memories.
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Merging Libraries and the Marriage of True Minds
If you’ve ever moved in with a partner, you know the "Great Book Merge" is the ultimate relationship test. Forget deciding who gets which side of the bed. The real drama is whether the fiction should be alphabetized by author or grouped by the color of the spine.
In her essay "Marrying Libraries," Fadiman explores the domestic chaos that ensues when two bibliophiles try to combine their collections. It’s not just about shelf space; it’s about identity. Her husband, George Howe Colt, had his own system. She had hers. To merge them was to admit that their intellectual lives were now intertwined.
It took them five years. Five.
They fought over whether to keep duplicates. Do you really need two copies of The Great Gatsby? For most people, the answer is a simple "no." For a Fadiman-level reader, the answer depends on which copy has the better marginalia or which one was held during a particularly transformative summer. It’s a beautiful, messy look at how our possessions reflect our souls.
The Problem with "Big Words" and Sesquipedalianism
We’ve all been there—reading something and hitting a word that makes us feel like an idiot. Fadiman doesn't look down on the reader for this. Instead, she celebrates the "sesquipedalian" (someone who loves long words).
She talks about her family’s obsession with the dictionary. They didn't just look things up; they competed. It was a sport. There’s a refreshing lack of snobbery here, even though she’s talking about things that could easily sound elitist. She makes the pursuit of the perfect word seem like a grand adventure rather than a chore.
Why use "big" when you can use "portentous"? Why say "tired" when you’re "enervated"?
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She admits that this can be a bit much. She knows that using a ten-dollar word when a nickel one will do can make you look like a jerk. But she argues that words are the palette of our thoughts. If you have more colors, you can paint a better picture.
The Essays That Stick With You
The book is structured into short, punchy chapters. You can finish one while waiting for your coffee. But they linger.
Take "The Cataloguer," where she dives into the neurosis of organizing. Or "My Odd Shelf," where she discusses the books we own that don't fit in—the technical manuals for things we don't own, or the obscure 19th-century guides on how to raise bees.
Ex Libris is packed with specific details that make it feel real. She mentions specific brands of glue. She talks about the smell of old paper. She references Charles Lamb and William Hazlitt not as dead statues, but as guys she’d probably want to grab a beer with.
Why Anne Fadiman Matters in a Digital Age
Let’s be real. We’re reading this on a screen. You probably have a Kindle or an iPad nearby. So, does a book about the tactile, physical, "carnal" love of paper books still matter in 2026?
Absolutely. Maybe even more than it did in 1998 when it was first published.
Digital books are efficient. They’re great for travel. But they have no soul. You can’t spill coffee on a Kindle file and have that stain remind you of a rainy Tuesday in Seattle ten years from now. You can’t see the handwriting of a deceased grandparent in the margins of an e-book.
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Fadiman’s work is a defense of the physical world. It’s a reminder that our intellectual lives are anchored in the material. When we read Ex Libris, we aren't just reading about books; we’re reading about how to be a human being who pays attention.
She reminds us that reading is a "common" act. It’s not just for professors. It’s for anyone who has ever stayed up too late because they couldn't bear to leave a character in a difficult situation.
Practical Ways to Channel Your Inner Fadiman
If you want to live a more "Fadiman-esque" life, you don't need a PhD in English Lit. You just need to change how you interact with your shelves.
First, stop being so precious. If you see a sentence you love, underline it. If you disagree with an author, write "No!" in the margin. This turns the book from a monologue into a conversation.
Second, start a "words I don't know" list. Don't just Google them and forget them. Write them down in the back of the book. It’s like a trophy room for your vocabulary.
Third, organize your books in a way that makes sense to you, not a librarian. If you want to put all the books that made you cry on one shelf, do it. If you want to group them by the city they take place in, go for it.
The Actionable Path to Bibliophilia
- Audit your library: Pick up five books. Do they have any "scars"? If not, you might be a courtly reader. Try "carnalizing" one. Write the date you finished it on the last page.
- Merge with intention: If you live with someone, find one book you both own. Decide which copy to keep based on the history of the object, not just its condition.
- Read aloud: Fadiman talks about the joy of reading to others. It’s not just for kids. Try reading a particularly beautiful paragraph to your partner or a friend. Words sound different when they hit the air.
- Visit a used bookstore: Not a pristine chain store. A place that smells like dust and old glue. Look for books with inscriptions from strangers. Fadiman loves these "ghosts" of previous readers.
Ex Libris isn't a long book. It’s barely 160 pages. But it contains an entire universe of appreciation for the written word. It’s a small, perfect object that argues, quite convincingly, that we are what we read—and more importantly, how we read.
If you’ve ever felt like you loved books a little too much, or if you’ve ever been caught smelling the spine of a new hardcover, this book is your permission slip. It tells you that you aren't weird. You’re just a reader. And in Anne Fadiman’s world, that’s the best thing you can be.
Essential Takeaway:
To truly appreciate Ex Libris, you have to stop viewing reading as a passive consumption of data and start seeing it as a physical, emotional, and social act. Use your books. Wear them out. Let them show the world where you’ve been and what you were thinking when you got there.