When does one decidedly slip something in between the pages of a book to facilitate its next opening? Or does s/he actually already have one ready with each new book? I haven’t used a bookmark (in the conventional sense of the word) in a long time. It was recently that I decided to just insert a loose name-card in between the pages of my current read: The Illustrated Dracula. While I am pretty sure it was more or less an unequivocal expression of whim rather than calculated planning, the book is nevertheless rather thickly stacked with glossy matted paper. That made my 2 most endearing go-to methods less appealing: dog-ears and book wide-open. I must also confess that perhaps it had something to do with the subconscious fear I have of leaving the spine-tingling book – complete with Jae Lee’s harrowing depictions – even slightly ajar while I rest (but that is another post altogether). Since youth, I have always used the ‘opened-book’ method as my foremost page marking effort. I somehow found it less decorative, and paradoxically, more hassle-free. I do not really know what to do with most bookmarks after use. Anyhow, let me now go through and share some interesting observations I have about a few of the more popular choices of book-marking around:

1. The coquettish string and beaded types: The hint of an almost-embriodery is a tad too sentimental and romantic for my taste. The cardboard alone is equally efficient. The proclamation of one’s love for reading on one’s bookmark, in this case, seems like an overstatement. 

2. The cutesy pop-up / designer clip kinds: Somehow, the treatment of pages with these fasteners scream abuse, even in comparison to dog-ears. The peekaboo effect is a treat to kids and some adults though.

 3. The ‘spinal string’ / rubber-band types: First, I don’t know how or what to feel about books with frills attached. Personally, a bookmark should not be connected permanently to the book, unless it is an organizer or diary. It offers one the polarity of total ‘dependence’ or ‘obselesence’, with nothing in between. The portable band types are simply hideous. They are implanted casts to a make-believe emergency, as if the book had not had its pages bounded properly at the printing house.  

4. The dog-ear type: It’s not abuse; it’s more like pinching the cheeks of a well-rounded read, encouraging it along. Just the other day, I heard some pages gossiping about the privileged ones which had been folded. (Incidentally, there is an independent bookstore in the States which names itself Dog-Eared Books.)

5. The open-book, faced-down method: Think of it as a much needed stretch for the spine, but watch the clock, or the words might just fall away from the pages if you deny them their consummating kisses for too long.  

6. The elongated plush animals: Sure, for kids, but are the lengths of these spines adjustable? I wouldn’t want the willie of my ellie hanging out. And, is it just me or do the animals look crushed? It’s somehow not that funny anymore. 

7. Random sentimental slot-ins: Dried flowers from lovers, a photograph, currency, etc. Just be careful you do not lose them since reading is not meant to be expensive. It can also be awkward when the bookmark upstages the book in personal value.  

8. Digital bookmarking: The advent of Kindle and the ilk will create a market of avatars for traditional accessories. The differences will take on  metaphysical dimensions, a war of memories between actual creases, and 1s and 0s.

In the very end, books are worth mark-leaving. The early bookmarks were meant to perform the opposite, where a clean slate is desired since books were rare and valuable. (See here for more.) Now, with the relative democratization of literature, the signposts of each precious journey must remain consistent with the identity and interest of its every reading citizen.  

Contributed by: s.t