When I was a senior at St. Andrews University, I did this wonderfully terrible thing: I wrote in a library book.
I spent a lot of time in DeTamble Library. And when I say “a lot” I mean every day. It wasn’t that I was a good student. In fact, I wasn’t a good student; I needed the study time.
As one of my last acts before graduation, I took down a book in the 800 section — literature — which is where I spent much of my time; I was an English major.
I pulled down the book, turned to the first blank page, and I wrote a letter to both my future self and to any student who happened upon that page. I loved my time at St. Andrews. The learning I received there and the friends I made have guided me my entire life. I wanted to share that love with others. I wrote about my four years there, and how I expected it would serve me as I became a mature, independent adult. I remember it as well-crafted and charming.
I was at St. Andrews last week and, out of curiosity, wandered into the library to revisit the book and “my” page.
As I walked into the lobby, I realized: I can’t remember which book it was.
And I never found it.