used books are creepy in a way

A friend lent me Conversation with Kafka. It's an interesting book, very small, but it makes you read again and again. As much as I respect Kafka, I found him a sad weirdo. I'll never get along with this kind of people.

He has no profession, only a vocation. He travels with his wife and the children from one friend to another. A free man, and a poet. In his presence I always have pangs of conscience, because I allow my life to be frittered away in an office.

I found this sentence underlined by my friend. I couldn't help myself picture him pondered those words, in the office, about 15 years ago. I almost saw him sitting by the window restlessly, desiring, with his big round eyes looking through the frame. What kind of personality would underline these words? How did he think of those words? What did he do at that time that made him underline those words? The questions flooded into my mind, and I was only prepared to read Kafka. All of a sudden it's only the story of my friend that's taking all my attention.

Used books are creepy in a way, especially underlineded used books. It's like you suddenly intrude a place that doesn't expect you, doesn't welcome you, doesn't belong to you, and you feel political incorrect to be there. Somehow, you feel the connection with people who had read the book. Those unknowns share the same book with you, I mean they touch the same cover, same pages, and maybe thought of the same thing with you. Isn't that creepy? I kinda like it!