I doubt it will save the medium, but one of the overlooked joys of picking up a physical book is the little artifacts left by its previous readers. If you're in a college town you can use the marks of highlighter in the text to determine the exact spot where some forgotten freshman gave up on Cry, The Beloved Country, the ernest markings of supposedly significant passages petering out around page 50. I recently went on a bit of a Norman Mailer binge, buying several of his books off a 50 cent rack at the library. Some previous reader was either a lit professor or dictating notes from a lit professor, so insightful were the notes made in clean cursive in the margins. The lady at the used bookstore I tried to trade the books in at later wouldn't take them on account of the writing, but I maintain that my unnamed guide added great value to the paperbacks. And then there are those things that have nothing to do with the book per se, beyond the fact that they must have made for an ad-hoc bookmark somewhere along the way. Another book I bought at that recent library sale had a 1960s-era coupon for a travel agency in London. The book was purchased in Anchorage, Alaska. Someone must have used that travel agent. Once I bought a Vonnegut book in Missoula at a yard sale, in which I found a touching, if a bit tortured, letter from a spurned lover. It made the book feel haunted, or perhaps hallowed. And just the other day I found a photograph of a fisherman standing by his pickup truck on a beach. I haven't looked at it enough to divine any significance from the photo, beyond it being a snapshot in time I have no context for. It's like a poem that way, moving for reasons we can't name.