Confessions of a page turner

Nope, I’m not talking about about a book that one can’t put down, nor am I writing from the point of view of a book that can’t be put down because it is so fascinating.

Back story 

My grandfather had a reverence for books. When a new one came into the house, which was often, the book had to be put on a table top and opened first from the back then from the front and a finger run down the spine so the pages would be properly opened. When I was four he said something that hurt my feelings, and the only revenge I could think of was to take one of his books and write on it in pencil on one page. He never discovered my treachery making it a wasted revenge that several decades later I can’t forget.

In junior high and high school we were given books for the year and then used paper bags to cover them. Those lucky enough to have a boyfriend in university would have university covers. I was proud of my Northeastern covers with the huskies on the front. I wouldn’t have dared write in those books because they faced inspection in June.

Thus, when I went to university and bought my own books, it was a bit shocking to be able to highlight important passages and scribble notes in the margins. Depending on the course, sometimes I would buy used books already marked up which made studying a bit easier—okay lazier.

Living on Wigglesworth Street in Boston (yes that is a real place named for a Doctor Wigglesworth, a specialist in syphilis at Harvard Medical School across the street) we exchanged books with our eccentric neighbour Hiram, who jotted comments in the margins, making the read much more fun. My favourite comment from him was “Oh no, not another French twist.”

Now comes the confession. I love to mark my place by turning over the page. Not every book like Mrs. Robinson’s Disgrace which is a Victorian Madame Bovary comes with an attached ribbon. As I was ready to stop reading, the businesswoman side of me wondered how much that added to the cost of the book.

I love the magnetic book markers. The Swedish paper store in Geneva’s Veille Ville have wonderful ones that I promptly lose.

Dear Readers, you may wonder why I haven’t gone to Kindle. Indeed it is on my list of things to do, but at the moment most of my books are free. Between the American Library in Geneva and an English bookstore owned by my friend in Argelès who doesn’t charge me for the used books as long as I return them, I seldom buy a work. That in itself is a terrible confession of a writer who sells her books. Guilty, oh ever so guilty and a bit cheap.

When I lived on Wigglesworth Street we had a library with hundreds of books. With each move there have been less and less that I keep. In fact most of the books on my shelves these days are copies of my own novels.

Thus despite the ribbon in Mrs. Robinson’s Disgrace, this morning, I turned down the corner of page 49 without even thinking of the ribbon bookmark.

I confess. I did it.