The Ruffled Crow

I grew up around books. Lots of books. I began to read them at 3, or so I’m told. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t read nor do I know how many books I’ve read, but I’d bet that number is somewhere on the upside of the average.

And because of this I’ve always had bookmarks too. In my mind, dog-earing a page corner is akin to writing in the margins – a cardinal sin, but occasionally necessary, and only then if the book’s condition or value allows it.

Nearly every bookstore supplies their own bookmark, as do most libraries, civic activities and organizations, museums and aquaria, parks and playhouses. If you need a ‘real’ bookmark, something created for the task, they’re easy to find.

We all have certain favorite bookmarks that we struggle not to lose, but in a pinch any slip of paper will do. Or a leaf, a feather, a piece of string, a gum wrapper, a picture, a dollar bill, a magazine response card, a random business card, or possibly even a ticket stub to a museum in Italy.

And they aren’t just slips of paper, either – formed brass, punched tin, stamped leather, wood laminate, shaved bark, reflective plastic, magnifying plastics, light lace, pattern-woven linen, crushed reed – just about any material that is cohesive, and won’t get absorbed by the book’s paper can or has been used to note a spot in someone’s book.

“The choice of a bookmark is a matter of personal taste and civilization, show me your bookmark and I will tell you who you are.”

George Hartong

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