Bookmarks For Books Quotes

We lusty bibliophiles know that reading, unlike just about anything else, is both good for you and loads of fun.

But Neve, you can’t start a book and leave it halfway through,’ he’d said implacably. ‘It’s almost as bad as turning down the corner of the page, instead of using a bookmark.

Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.

To use an electronics analogy, closing a book on a bookmark is like pressing the Stop button, whereas when you leave the book facedown, you've only pressed Pause.

It was also a room full of books and made of books. There was no actual furniture; this is to say, the desk and chairs were shaped out of books. It looked as though many of them were frequently referred to, because they lay open with other books used as bookmarks.

We note our place with bookmarkers That measure what we've lost.

I put my book down, finding a Post-it note to use as a bookmark, because folding the corner of a page—even in a thirty-year-old book—is sacrilege.

As I write this it’s occurring to me that the books I most adore are the ones that archive the people who have handled them—dogears, or old receipts used as bookmarks (always a lovely digression). Underlines and exclamation points, and this in an old library book! The tender vandalisms by which, sometimes, we express our love.

I love bookshelves, and stacks of books, spines, typography, and the feel of pages between my fingertips. I love bookmarks, and old bindings, and stars in margins next to beautiful passages. I love exuberant underlinings that recall to me a swoon of language-love from a long-ago reading, something I hoped to remember. I love book plates, and inscriptions in gifts from loved ones, I love author signatures, and I love books sitting around reminding me of them, being present in my life, being. I love books. Not just for what they contain. I love them as objects too, as ever-present reminders of what they contain, and because they are beautiful. They are one of my favorite things in life, really at the tiptop of the list, easily my favorite inanimate things in existence, and ... I am just not cottoning on to this idea of making them ... not exist anymore. Making them cease to take up space in the world, in my life? No, please do not take away the physical reality of my books.

When a bookmark tumbles out of an old book pristine and unwrinkled, it is like a gasp of breath from another century.

I try not to cringe. Dog-earing a book feels like a violation of some sacred unspoken rule.

Manage me, I am a mess, swept under the rug of yesterday’s home improvement, a whimsical urge tossed aside for the easy reassurance of home and comfort. I am the photograph tucked away as a book-mark, in a book left half unread, once reopened to find memories crawling back into peripheral sight, faded, creased and lonely. I long to be admired, long to be held, torn and laughed at, laughed with, like a distant relative or an old friend breathing in their last breath. I missed the moment when time collapsed and memory was erased, replaced by finicky social experiments, lost in the blur of intoxication, sucked through multi-colored bendy-straws, making way for a spinning world where hub-caps stood still, but our vision didn’t. If I could leave you with only one thing, it would be small, foldable, and made from trees, with a few careless words, scribbled in blue; Take a minute to learn me, take a moment to love me, because I need your love to live,and without it, I am nothing.

Maybe i'm not the book you dog-ear & keep with you always," te girl murmured, pulling her sleeves over her hands. "maybe i'm the book you forget to bookmark & leave on the train." - shrinking violets like us.

Another time, I happened to find a pressed flower someone had left as a bookmark. As I inhaled the scent of the long-ago-faded flower, I wondered about the person who had put it there. Who in the world was she? When did she live? What was she feeling? It’s only in secondhand books that you can savor encounters like this, connections that transcend time.

People aren't books. You can't bookmark your favourite pages to return to whenever you're feeling lonely; when the nights are too cold and you need something familiar to keep you warm, you can't reopen their spines and wear out their pages and call that obsession love.

She finds the ribbon she uses as a bookmark, opens the book, and the museum falls away.

She read her way around the library, hungry for journeys, adventures, laughter and passion. She took each new book to bed like a lover, savouring every chapter, going too far some nights until the letters danced like insects and she was groggy next day at work. But still she'd sneak away for lunchtime trysts, her eager fingers fumbling for the bookmark.

No, books. She would have maybe twenty going at a time, lying all over our house--on the kitchen table, by her bed, the bathroom, our car, her bags, a little stack at the edge of each stair. And she'd use anything she could find for a bookmark. My missing sock, an apple core, her reading glasses, another book, a fork.

time is nothing to me but a series of book-marks that I use to jump back and forth through the text of my life, returning again and again to the events that mark me,

Fortune favours the brave, sir," said Carrot cheerfully. "Good. Good. Pleased to hear it, captain. What is her position vis a vis heavily armed, well prepared and excessively manned armies?" "Oh, no–one's ever heard of Fortune favouring them, sir." "According to General Tacticus, it's because they favour themselves," said Vimes. He opened the battered book. Bits of paper and string indicated his many bookmarks. "In fact, men, the general has this to say about ensuring against defeat when outnumbered, out–weaponed and outpositioned. It is..." he turned the page, "'Don't Have a Battle.

The morning after their deaths, Armand had gone into their room. The scent of them, the sense of them, almost too much to bear. The clothing. The book. The bookmark. The bedside clock, still ticking. He'd thought that strange. Surely it should have stopped.

a book with a bookmark inside implies someone has merely gone away, and will be back to finish it soon. Removing the bookmark takes on a horrible finality

Fortune favours the brave, sir," said Carrot cheerfully. "Good. Good. Pleased to hear it, captain. What is her position vis a vis heavily armed, well prepared and excessively manned armies?" "Oh, no–one's ever heard of Fortune favouring them, sir." "According to General Tacticus, it's because they favour themselves," said Vimes. He opened the battered book. Bits of paper and string indicated his many bookmarks. "In fact, men, the general has this to say about ensuring against defeat when outnumbered, out–weaponed and outpositioned. It is..." he turned the page, "'Don't Have a Battle.'" "Sounds like a clever man," said Jenkins. He pointed to the yellow horizon. "See all that stuff in the air?" he said. "What do you think that is?" "Mist?" said Vimes. "Hah, yes. Klatchian mist! It's a sandstorm! The sand blows about all the time. Vicious stuff. If you want to sharpen your sword, just hold it up in the air." "Oh." "And it's just as well because otherwise you'd see Mount Gebra. And below it is what they call the Fist of Gebra. It's a town but there's a bloody great fort, walls thirty feet thick. 's like a big city all by itself. 's got room inside for thousands of armed men, war elephants, battle camels, everything. And if you saw that, you'd want me to turn round right now. Whats your famous general got to say about it, eh?" "I think I saw something..." said Vimes. He flicked to another page. "Ah, yes, he says, 'After the first battle of Sto Lat, I formulated a policy which has stood me in good stead in other battles. It is this: if the enemy has an impregnable stronghold, see he stays there.'" "That's a lot of help," said Jenkins. Vimes slipped the book into a pocket. "So, Constable Visit, there's a god on our side, is there?" "Certainly, sir." "But probably also a god on their side as well?" "Very likely, sir. There's a god on every side." "Let's hope they balance out, then.

I was actually thinking about writing, maybe," Owen said. "About Charm?" Kiel asked, raising an eyebrow. "No?" Owen said, probably a bit too fast too be believable. "I have some other ideas.

Think of your windshield as an energy source for your brain. Use pictures (the walls of many talent hotbeds are cluttered with photos and posters of their stars) or, better, video. One idea: Bookmark a few YouTube videos, and watch them before you practice, or at night before you go to bed.

He loved physical books with the same avidity other people loved horses or wine or prog rock. He'd never really warmed to ebooks because they seemed to reduce a book to a computer file, and computer files were disposable things, things you never really owned. He had no emails from ten years ago but still owned every book he bought that year. Besides, what was more perfect an object than a book? The different rags of paper, smooth or rough under your fingers. The edge of the page pressed into your thumbprint as you turned a new chapter. The way your bookmark - fancy, modest, scrap paper, candy wrapper - moved through the width of it, marking your progress, a little further each time you folded it shut.

Pick one,” he says just as I reach the handle. “One what?” He nods toward the shelves. I run my hands over my face in frustration. “You drive me insane.” I move toward the shelf and look over his collection. I pause when I see a few familiar titles. “You have a whole romance section.” I giggle and pull a book from the shelf. When I open it, a receipt falls to the floor. Inspecting it, I see he’s just bought ten books and spent a few hundred dollars opting for some pricy hardcovers over paperbacks. “You just bought these?” Upon closer inspection, I see most of them are romance titles by my favorite indies. There’s also a few suspense and an older historical, all of them titles from a familiar list that I wrote on a bookmark in my bedroom. When he was in my house, he had to have snooped in my room while Sean was distracting me. “You looked through my stuff?” He keeps his eyes on his book. It’s a stupid question. And the answer is so obvious, but I can’t help myself. “You bought these for me?” Silence. And again, I’m floating off the ground as he continues to read, feigning indifference. But I know differently now, and it changes everything. Beneath that mask is a man who’s been paying attention, very close attention to me. He turns another page and pulls an empty pillow closer to his shoulder. He wants me to read, with him, in his bed. And what better way to pass a day in stormy weather than curling up with a gorgeous man and getting lost in the words.

The house had always been full of books, far too many for one person to get through in a lifetime. Her father didn't collect them to read, to own first editions or to keep those signed by the author; Gil collected them for the handwritten marginalia and doodles that marked the pages, for the forgotten ephemera used as bookmarks. Every time Flora came home he would show her his new discoveries: left-behind photographs, postcards and letters, bail slips, receipts, handwritten recipes and drawings, valentines and tickets, sympathy cards, excuse notes to teachers; bits of paper with which he could piece together other people's lives, other people who had read the same books he held and who had marked their place.

Accidentally moving someone’s bookmark is like realizing you gave bad directions and not telling them.

Kiel pulled his arm out of Owen's grasp and stepped forward. "Where is she?" he shouted, angrier than Owen had ever seen him

Good morning, magazines! Good morning, bookmarks! Good morning, books! Good morning, store!

Just as with a traditional book, you can also highlight favorite passages, add notes, and create bookmarks.

A good book to read and another to press flowers and herbs – pressed flowers and herbs make wonderful bookmarks.

A paperback book was wrapped around Barney's massive index finger as he held his place.

Good morning, magazines! Good morning, bookmarks! Good morning, books!

He gripped the little book tightly, staring at its dark blue cover, its silver designs, and its ribbon bookmark. Imprinted on the front in gold lettering was the Greek word μπλεβιβλιο. Bluebook.

Over the years more than one friend or acquaintance had asked Tricia why she was so enamored of the mystery genre. How could she actually enjoy stories that celebrated violent death? They had it all wrong. The books didn't celebrate death, but triumph for justice. Too often real-life villains got away with murder, but in fiction, justice was usually assured. Sometimes she wished life better imitated art.

I,” I start, and she turns to look at my lips moving, rehearsing for some grand proposal. “I think it’d be good idea if you brought a few books over and left them on my shelf.” I’m a writer, and this is as good as it gets. She didn’t need a ring, just the ability to borrow a bookmark whenever she needed, or unwritten or unspoken permission to take my copy of Cecil Brown’s The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger with the original cover.

Second hand books had so much life in them. They'd lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They'd been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned. "Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths, and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had child-like scrawls on the acknowledgement page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark. Then there were the pristine novels, ones that had been read carefully, bookmarks used, almost like their owner barely pried the pages open so loathe were they to damage their treasure. I loved them all. And I found it hard to part with them. Though years of book selling had steeled me. I had to let them go, and each time made a fervent wish they'd be read well, and often. Missy, my best friend, said I was completely cuckoo, and that I spent too much time alone in my shadowy shop, because I believed my books communicated with me. A soft sigh here, as they stretched their bindings when dawn broke, or a hum, as they anticipated a customer hovering close who might run a hand along their cover, tempting them to flutter their pages hello. Books were fussy when it came to their owners, and gave off a type of sound, an almost imperceptible whirr, when the right person was near. Most people weren't aware that books chose us, at the time when we needed them.

There are readers who live, breath, inhale stories and, while immersed in a book, live a divided life. Part of them is always waiting in that fictional world for the story to continue, suspended at the moment the page was last bookmarked. That's who I write for,

Grampa’s long beard was serving as a bookmark in a well-thumbed paperback with a Western-themed cover. I never knew what would catch Grampa’s fancy in the book department. He was as likely to be caught reading a gothic romantic suspense as he was a snowblower repair manual.

Another time, I happened to find a pressed flower someone had left as a bookmark. As I inhaled the scent of the long-ago faded flower, I wondered about the person who had put it there. Who in the world was she? When did she live? What was she feeling? It’s only in secondhand books that you can savor encounters like this, connections that transcend time. And that’s how I learned to love the secondhand bookstore that handled these books, our Morisaki Bookshop. I realized how precious a chance I’d been given, to be a part of that little place, where you can feel the quiet flow of time.

You have to force yourself to stop each day and look around. Give yourself a chance to enjoy the reality of the moment because there are no real endings, no bookmarks for your life to guide you. It just keeps going until it’s over, and it’s up to you to pick a point in time to stop and consider where you are.

Most of the books I have are indicators of my insecurity. I really wanted to be an intellectual. I really wanted to understand Sartre. I thought that was what made people smart. I have tried to read Being and Nothingness no fewer than twenty times in my life. I really thought that every answer had to be in that book. Maybe it is. The truth is, I can’t read anything with any distance. Every book is a self-help book to me. Just having them makes me feel better. I underline profusely but I don’t retain much. Reading is like a drug. When I am reading from these books it feels like I am thinking what is being read, and that gives me a rush. That is enough. I glean what I can. I finish some of the unfinished thoughts lingering around in my head by adding the thoughts of geniuses and I build from there. There are bookmarks in most of the denser tomes at around page 20 to 40 because that was where I said, “I get it.” Then I put them back on the shelf.

I have underlined words and sentences in one of the Bibles that has always been my study Bible, but when I look at those words and sentences now, I can’t remember why they were underlined. One day I was rereading a short story by Joanne Greenberg, and I came across a long passage that I had marked off, but as I looked at it, I couldn't remember why. Perhaps I had meant to ask her about it the next time we talked on the phone, but now I have no idea what it could be that I wanted to ask her. My Revised Standard version of the Bible is filled with markings, for I have gone through it word for word with study groups at least four times, and of course, I have used it on various occasions to begin speeches. I know that the underlined passages served some purpose, but here and there are verses that have no special meaning to me. It is almost as if a friend had secretly opened the book and made some markings just to tease me. What was the spirit trying to say to me then that I no longer need to hear? Or, what was I listening for then that I no longer care about?

Besides, what was more perfect an object than a book? The different rags of paper, smooth or rough under your fingers. The edge of the page pressed into your thumbprint as you turned a new chapter. The way your bookmark -fancy, modest, scrap paper, candy wrapper -moved through the width of it, marking your progress, a little further each time you folded it shut.

I'm so confused," Prudencia says. I'm realizing she's the only celestial in a room with Halo Nights and phoenix specters talking about past lives. "How do Halo Nights even know about a phoenix's process of retrocycling? I take it a phoenix didn't come back from the past and tell you about their vacation." Wyatt shakes the book in the air. "My moment has come!" He opens to the page he bookmarked earlier. "Storytime, gentlepeople.

Blythe's favorite shelf near the coffee area. She'd labeled it W.O.W. (WORDS OF WISDOM) and it was stocked with her perennial favorites with bookmarked passages. Natalie used to love browsing that shelf. A book would never betray you or change its mind or make you feel stupid. She took down The Once and Future King and found a marked passage: "The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails."

He couldn’t bear to live, but he couldn’t bear to die. He couldn’t bear the thought of her making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn’t bear to keep it, but he couldn’t bear to destroy it either. So he tried to lose it. He left it by the wax-weeping candle holders, placed it between matzos every Passover, dropped it without regard among rumpled papers on his cluttered desk, hoping it wouldn’t be there when he returned. But it was always there. He tried to massage it out of his pocket while sitting on the bench in front of the fountain of the prostrate mermaid, but when he inserted his hand for his hanky, it was there. He hid it like a bookmark in one of the novels he most hated, but the note would appear several days later between the pages of one of the Western books that he alone in the shtetl read, one of the books that the note had now spoiled for him forever. But like his life, he couldn’t for the life of him lose the note. It kept returning to him. It stayed with him, like a part of him, like a birthmark, like a limb, it was on him, in him, him, his hymn: I had to do it for myself.

Books? Yes, I read a lot, I’ve always read a lot. No, I’m not sure we do understand each other. I like to read best on the floor, or in bed, almost everything lying down, no, it has less to do with the books, above all it has to do with the reading, with black on white, with the letters, syllables, lines, the signs, the setting down, this inhuman fixing, this insanity, which flows from people and is frozen into expression. Believe me, expression is insanity, it arises out of our insanity. It also has to do with turning pages, with hunting from one page to the other, with flight, with complicity in an absurd, solidified effusion, with a vile overflow of verse, with insuring life in a single sentence, and, in turn, with the sentences seeking insurance in life. Reading is a vice which can replace all other vices or temporarily take their place in more intensely helping people live, it is a debauchery, a consuming addiction. No, I don’t take any drugs, I take books, of course I have certain preferences, many books don’t suit me at all, some I take only in the morning, others at night, there are books I don’t ever let go, I drag them around with me in the apartment, carrying them from the living room into the kitchen, I read them in the hall standing up, I don’t use bookmarks, I don’t move my lips while reading, early on I learned to read very well, I don’t remember the method, but you ought to look into it, they must have used an excellent method in our provincial elementary schools, at least back then when I learned to read. Yes I also realized, but not until later, that there are countries where people don’t know how to read, at least not quickly, but speed is important, not only concentration, can you please tell me who can keep chewing on a simple or even a complex sentence without feeling disgust, either with the eyes or the mouth, just keep on grinding away, over and over, a sentence which only consists of subject and predicate must be consumed rapidly, a sentence with many appositions must for that very reason be taken at tremendous speed, with the eyeballs performing an imperceptible slalom, since a sentence doesn’t convey anything to itself, it has to “convey” something to the reader. I couldn’t “work my way through” a book, that would almost be an occupation. There are people, I tell you, you come across the strangest surprises in this field of reading . . . I do profess a certain weakness for illiterates, I even know someone here who doesn’t read and doesn’t want to, a person who has succumbed to the vice of reading more easily understands such a state of innocence, really unless people are truly capable of reading they ought not to read at all.

Getting Started Setting up your Kindle Oasis Kindle controls Status indicators Keyboard Network connectivity VoiceView screen reader Special Offers and Sponsored Screensavers Chapter 2 Navigating Your Kindle The Kindle Home screen Toolbars Tap zones Chapter 3 Acquiring & Managing Kindle Content Shop for Kindle and Audible content anytime, anywhere Recommended content Managing your Kindle Library Device and Cloud storage Removing items from your Kindle Chapter 4 Reading Kindle Documents Understanding Kindle display technology Customizing your text display Comic books Children's books Images Tables Interacting with your content Navigating a book Chapter 5 Playing Audible Books Pairing a Bluetooth audio device Using the Audible Player Audiobook bookmarks Downloading Audible books Audiobook Library Management Chapter 6 Features X-Ray Word Wise Vocabulary Builder Amazon FreeTime (Amazon Fire for Kids in the UK) Managing your Amazon Household Goodreads on Kindle Time to Read Chapter 7 Getting More from Your Kindle Oasis Carrying and reading personal documents Reading Kindle content on other devices Sharing Using your Kindle with your computer Using the Experimental Web Browser Chapter 8 Settings Customizing your Kindle settings The Settings contextual menu Chapter 9 Finding Additional Assistance Appendix A Product Information

I was just settling into the salons of Austenian Bath when Gabriel muttered, "This is strange." I looked up to see him pulling a long blue-gray thread from between the nearly translucent pages. My jaw dropped, and I was kneeling on the chaise in a flash. "Is the binding coming loose? No, don't pull it! I can take it to my book doctor tomorrow night." "Stop hyperventilating, sweetheart. I think it's a bookmark," he said, pulling on the thread until he stretched it to my hand. "Here." I wound the thread around my finger. "What passage was it marking?" He scanned the page and lifted an eye. "It's an Edward and Jane scene. I know how you love those. Edward's saying, 'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you---especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.'" I was so caught up in watching his lips as they formed the words that I barely noticed the sudden tension on the fiber wound around my finger. I realized now that Gabriel had slipped a ring onto the thread and was sliding it toward me. I watched as the respectable diamond twinkled in the light of the oil lamp. "I'm not Edward, " Gabriel promised. "I'm not afraid the thread will break and leave me bleeding. Our thread's already been tested. And it will hold up. I'm asking you to make the link permanent. Please, marry me.

Now don't think I've lost my mind - but I'll tell you, I'll look at some of the cards I have, some of Van Gogh's pictures of the poor, the coal miners, or Daumier's, and I talk to those pictures! I look, and I speak. I get strength form the way those writers and artists portrayed the poor, that's how I've kept going all these years. I pray to God and go visit him in churches; and I have my conversational time with Van Gogh or with Dickens - I mean, I'll look at a painting reproduced on a postcard, that I use as a bookmark, or I read one of those underlined pages in one of my old books, and Lord, I've got my strength to get through the morning or afternoon! When I die, I hope people will say that I tried to be mindful of what Jesus told us - his wonderful stories - and I tried my best to live up to his example (we fall flat on our faces all the time, though!) and I tried to take those artists and novelists to heart, and live up to their wisdom (a lot of it came from Jesus, as you probably know, because Dickens and Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy kept thinking of Jesus themselves all through their lives).

But what about the things that you CANNOT do with the electronic version [of a book]? You cannot drop the computer on the floor in a fit of pique, or slam it shut. You cannot leave a bookmark with a note on it in a computer and then come upon it after several years and feel happy you've found something you thought you had lost. You cannot get any sort of tactile pleasure from rubbing the pages of a computer. (Maybe some people do get a tactile pleasure from rubbing their computers, but they are not people I have any interest in knowing anything about.) Reading on a computer screen gives you no sense of time or investment. The page always looks the same, and everything else is always in the same exact spot. When reading a book, no matter how large or small it is, a tension builds, concurrent with your progress through its pages. I get a nervous excitement as I see the number of pages that remain to be read draining inexorably from the right to the left... I've never sat down at a new computer and, prior to using it, felt a deep and abiding need to open it up and sniff it as deeply as I can, the way I have with my a book...and though a computer will inarguably hold far more information than even the largest of books, sitting down at a computer has never provided me with that delicious anticipatory sense that I am about to be utterly and rhapsodically transported by the words within it. I've never looked across the room at my computer and fondly remembered things that I once read in it. I can while away hours at a time just standing in front of my books and relive my favourite passages by merely gazing at their spines. I have never walked into a room full of computers, far from home, and immediately felt a warm familiarity come over me, the way I have with every library I've ever set foot in. It is not so much that I am anti-computer; I am resolutely and stubbornly pro-book.

Besides, it’s not as big a deal as people make it out to be. You just have to be prepared to answer any question on any of the four hundred books you’ve read so far in graduate school. And if you get it wrong, they kick you out,” she said. He fixed her with a look of barely contained awe while she stirred the salad around her plate with the tines of her fork. She smiled at him. Part of learning to be a professor was learning to behave in a professorial way. Thomas could not be permitted to see how afraid she was. The oral qualifying exam is usually a turning point—a moment when the professoriate welcomes you as a colleague rather than as an apprentice. More infamously, the exam can also be the scene of spectacular intellectual carnage, as the unprepared student—conscious but powerless—witnesses her own professional vivisection. Either way, she will be forced to face her inadequacies. Connie was a careful, precise young woman, not given to leaving anything to chance. As she pushed the half-eaten salad across the table away from the worshipful Thomas, she told herself that she was as prepared as it was possible to be. In her mind ranged whole shelvesful of books, annotated and bookmarked, and as she set aside her luncheon fork she roamed through the shelves of her acquired knowledge, quizzing herself. Where are the economics books? Here. And the books on costume and material culture? One shelf over, on the left. A shadow of doubt crossed her face. But what if she was not prepared enough? The first wave of nausea contorted her stomach, and her face grew paler. Every year, it happened to someone. For years she had heard the whispers about students who had cracked, run sobbing from the examination room, their academic careers over before they had even begun. There were really only two ways that this could go. Her performance today could, in theory, raise her significantly in departmental regard. Today, if she handled herself correctly, she would be one step closer to becoming a professor. Or she would look in the shelves

Assign a file or paper tray to collect single-side printed paper for reuse. Boycott paper sourced from virgin forests and reams sold in plastic. Cancel magazine and newspaper subscriptions; view them online instead. Digitize important receipts and documents for safekeeping. Digital files are valid proofs for tax purposes. Download CutePDF Writer to save online files without having to print them. Email invitations or greeting cards instead of printing them (see “Holidays and Gifts” chapter). Forage the recycling can when paper scraps are needed, such as for bookmarks or pictures (for school collages, for example). Give extra paper to the local preschool. Hack the page margins of documents to maximize printing. Imagine a paperless world. Join the growing paperless community. Kill the fax machine; encourage electronic faxing through a service such as HelloFax. Limit yourself to print only on paper that has already been printed on one side. Make online billing and banking a common practice. Nag the kids’ teachers to send home only important papers. Opt out of paper newsletters. Print on both sides when using a new sheet of paper (duplex printing). Question the need for printing; print only when absolutely necessary. In most cases, it is not. Repurpose junk mail envelopes—make sure to cross out any barcode. Sign electronically using the Adobe Acrobat signing feature or SignNow.com. Turn down business cards; enter relevant info directly into a smartphone. Use shredded paper as a packing material, single-printed paper fastened with a metal clip for a quick notepad (grocery lists, errands lists), and double-printed paper to wrap presents or pick up your dog’s feces. Visit the local library to read business magazines and books. Write on paper using a pencil, which you can then erase to reuse paper, or better yet, use your computer, cell phone, or erasable board instead of paper. XYZ: eXamine Your Zipper; i.e., your leaks: attack any incoming source of paper.

He pulled a book out of the debris in front of him and opened it at the piece of bacon he’d used as a bookmark.

I had a wonderful book tour of the New England Coast and will write about some of my adventures during the remaining time of this week. The grip of winter refused to let go as I was welcomed to New England, however some of the trees already showed signs of budding. The weather swung between absolutely beautiful crisp sunny days and grim, cloudy skies with low hanging wet fog. Many of the stores and restaurants were still closed, however everyone was looking forward to nicer days ahead. Mainers treated me as the wayward son of Maine that lost his way and wound up in Florida. Since this frequently happens I was usually forgiven and made to feel at home in our countries most northeastern state. I left copies of my books at many libraries and bookstores and although I didn’t intend to sell books I did bring home many orders. Needless to say it didn’t take long before all the samples I had were gone. In my time on the road I distributed over 250 copies of “Salty & Saucy Maine” and 150 copies of “Suppressed I Rise.” I even sold my 2 samples of “The Exciting Story of Cuba” and “Seawater One.” Every one of my business cards went and I freely distributed over 1,000 bookmarks. Lucy flew with Ursula and I to Bradley Airport near Hartford, CT. From there we drove to her son’s home in Duxbury, MA. The next day we visited stores in Hyannis and Plymouth introducing my books. I couldn’t believe how nice the people were since I was now more a salesman than a writer. The following day Ursula and I headed north and Lucy went to Nantucket Island where she has family. For all of us the time was well spent. I drove as far as Bar Harbor meeting people and making new friends. Today I filled a large order and ordered more books. I haven’t figured out if it’s work or fun but it certainly keeps me busy. I hope that I can find the time to finish my next book “Seawater Two.

daughter of the past who walked in all wide-eyed and exhaling like she’d finally found what she was looking for. It was a look I knew well. So glad to be in a cozy bookshop, in air-conditioned comfort, surrounded by stories, and to find that in the chaos of the world there was still a place like this. A place where books were piled to the ceiling and tables were crowded with the paraphernalia of reading: bookmarks, reading lights, stationery, pens and framed quotes to inspire.

It isn’t especially strange to find words written in the back of an old book; Beatrice has been a librarian for five years and has seen much worse, including the patron who used a raw strip of bacon as a bookmark.

I made a show of sitting up straighter, bookmarking the book I hadn’t been reading, and raising my eyebrows in the manner of someone cooperative yet bemused. I was bemused, but my inclinations toward cooperation were waning. Denise sat down beside me and spoke quietly, discreetly, while I detected in her eyes a certain frisson. As though she’d been waiting a long time for a case like mine. Maybe I was even her first.

Did you bookmark the chapters detailing how Willa spent afternoons entertaining not one but two suitors, one in front and the other—?” “You seem to know a lot about that book.” “I love that fucking book,

While we currently pick a hotel founding our decision on photos, videos, and reviews only, the metaverse could provide a more immersive experience, and allow us to "visit" a destination, book a hotel room or a restaurant table, bookmark a museum while sitting on our couch, and -then- live the experience IRL. It's travel research on steroids. No static image, 2D video, or website will ever be able to deliver an equivalent experience.

WARNING. PSA LITERARY TYPES ARE EVERYWHERE. So always carry some form of protection when dealing with poets. This includes but is not limited to anthologies, whiskey bottles (or other object including flask or gin), bags of coffee, berets or bookmarks, turtlenecks, a book of Kerouac or Whitman, etc. Be wary. Prose writers are harder to spot and if they are novelists leave their area immediately or you will be stuck for hours listening to plots.

had to buy Ava a second bookshelf to house all of them, she was keeping a portion of the books in storage containers, we had to stop that. Since moving into the apartment I completely transformed the balcony into a reader’s paradise because that’s where Ava spent most of her waking hours when I was away. I installed a fan that was pointed directly at her wicker hanging loveseat. It was big enough to fit two people so her petite frame fit in the chair perfectly. It was black and turquoise, her favorite colors and that was probably her favorite piece of furniture. I also added waterproof blackout curtains to provide privacy or shade when Ava wanted it. There were two other patio chairs and a glass table for times when I sat outside with her. She placed her turquoise tassel bookmark in the book to save her position and peered up at me, clearly comfortable in her position.

I took the hint and retrieved my own book out of my purse, flipping to the bookmark in the middle of chapter eleven of Jennifer L. Armentrout’s Half-Blood.

RULE #16 • Never underestimate the value of a good bookmark.

When I approached, he casually bookmarked his page with a thin red satin ribbon and set the book down on the table beside him. He arched an eyebrow at me.

Set a timer for 25 minutes right now and concentrate on what you’re reading in this book for that amount of time. When your alarm goes off, bookmark this book and close it. Then write down what you learned within that 25-minute period.

Secondhand books had so much life in them. They’d lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They’d been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned. Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths, and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had childlike scrawls on the acknowledgment page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark. Then there were the pristine novels, ones that had been read carefully, bookmarks used, almost like their owner barely pried the pages open so loath were they to damage their treasure. I loved them all.

A child who carries a book with a bookmark in it is in two places at the same time.

I’d better make a list of all the things that make me feel good. Lists save lives. They keep our memories alive, as Umberto Eco says in The Infinity of Lists. Here goes: Laura’s voice message letting me know she’s at an LGBT+ rights demo like she’d tell me she was popping down to the shops, and warning me not to pick up if her boyfriend calls; he’s looking for her, and fretting because he can’t find her, and anyway he ‘doesn’t even know the difference between gay and straight’ Raffaella’s voice messages and her joy when she receives our books Maicol tearing through the cobbled streets of Lucignana, drunk on life My great-niece Rebecca joining the bookshop family and the certainty her cynicism will blossom into something completely unexpected My father’s existence The coffee I’m about to have with Tessa, who’s on her way to us on her motorbike with a box full of bookmarks, our official bookmarks she’s been gifting us since that day after the fire, with a quote from her mother Lynn Emanuele Trevi and Giovanni Giovannetti absconding from the literary conference in Lucca, later found smoking weed in a car in Piazza San Michele by a security guard, who happened to be the writer Vincenzo Pardini, so he let them go Ernesto and Mum cuddling on the sofa Daniele’s Barbara and Maurizio’s Barbara Ricchi e Poveri Donatella being sure Romano fancies her My mother trying to escape her hospital bed as soon as I look the other way Tina’s mother Mike quickly wrapping a towel around his waist as I walk into his garden and Mike leaving Brighton with two large boxes of tea stashed in his boot, concocting a story for the customs officers The anglers reading Louise Glück and Lawrence Ferlinghetti on the Segone The words I only ever hear in Lucignana: lollers and slackies and ‘bumming down’ to pee My own continued, miraculous existence.

Foolish girl. You should never crease the pages of a book. Can they not afford bookmarks in your castle?

I happened to find a pressed flower someone had left as a bookmark. As I inhaled the scent of the long-ago-faded flower, I wondered about the person who had put it there. Who in the world was she? When did she live? What was she feeling? It’s only in secondhand books that you can savor encounters like this, connections that transcend time.

Clippings. When Whispersync for Books is set to Enabled, these items are stored in the Cloud for you so they won't be lost. To manage the Whispersync for Books setting, tap the Menu button and select Settings. On the Settings page, select Device Options, Personalize your Kindle, Advanced Options, then Whispersync for Books. Bookmarks Amazon's Whispersync technology automatically saves your place in whatever content you are reading. To bookmark a page, tap the Bookmark button on the reading toolbar and tap the plus sign next to the location or page information. A black bookmark will appear

I want to ask you a question: Who buys bookmarks?"               "What do you mean? People who love books?"               "You would think, right? But you're wrong. People who read books on the regular, yes, they buy bookmarks. But that rare breed like myself, and apparently our Ms. Cardinal here, people who snuggle with books, they don’t buy bookmarks."               "No?"               "No, we don’t, said Allie, turning pages carefully. "We go through books like crazy. And we'll stop in the middle of one to start another, and then go back to the first one after a long period of time, and we use whatever's at hand to mark our place; a receipt, a ticket stub, a tissue—

time of World War II. The narration,

Bookmark at location 22 | Added on Saturday, 27 December 2014 10:59:10 ========== The Long Haul (Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Book 9) (Kinney, Jeff) - Your Bookmark at location 25 | Added on Saturday, 27 December 2014 13:06:39 ========== The Long Haul (Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Book 9) (Kinney, Jeff) - Your Bookmark at location 31 | Added on Saturday, 27 December 2014 13:15:48 ========== The Long Haul (Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Book 9) (Kinney, Jeff) ========== ========== Diary of a 6th Grade Ninja (a hilarious adventure for children

I shall never forget how the red ball of the sun hung on the horizon and raced along with the train for a short space,” she later wrote, “and then plunged below the belly-band of the earth. There have been other suns that set in significance for me, but that sun! It was a book-mark in the pages of a life.” While

The Patrician watched him for a while, and then took a book off the little shelf beside him. Since the rats couldn't read the library he'd been able to assemble was a little baroque, but he was not a man to ignore fresh knowledge. He found his bookmark in the pages of Lacemaking Through the Ages, and read a few pages. After a while he found it necessary to brush a few crumbs of mortar off the book, and looked up. “Are you achieving success?” he inquired politely.

Books are Silent Friends

The mark of a good book is not needing a bookmark.

The proper bookmark for a Hunter Thompson book is a pair of brass knuckles.

My own Grandmother and Mother are anti gadget. One time I saw my Mom using the kindle I got her for Christmas as a bookmark in a paperback book.

Darcy staring handsomely out from the shelves. Well, Colin Firth, really. ‘The face that launched a thousand bookmarks,

Secrets Series, Book 1) (Elliot, Kendra) - Your Bookmark on page 66 | Location 857 | Added on Saturday, January 10, 2015 10:38:49

The Art of Papier-Mâché,” he said, reading the title of the lowest book in the stack. He pointed to the ledger above it. “I want you to record notes on it while you read. Take thorough enough notes and I won’t make you write a report.” Ceony’s jaw fell. “But—” “A Living Paper Garden,” he said, gesturing to the next book in the stack. “Do the same. I bookmarked chapters five, six, and twelve; they have exercises in them I’d like you to do. And A Tale of Two Cities. It’s just a good book. Have you read it?” Ceony stared at the paper magician, words caught in her throat. He’d gone mad again. He’d tricked her into thinking he wasn’t mad, and yet now he’d proved—

Reaching into her pack again, Ceony pulled out a simple bookmark, long and pointed at one end. She handed it to Zina. Her sister crooked an eyebrow. “Uh, what is this?” “A bookmark,” Ceony explained. “Just tell it the title of the book you’re reading and leave it on the nightstand. It will keep track of what page you’re on by itself.” She pointed to the center of the bookmark, where she’d overlaid a small square of paper. “The page number will appear here, in my handwriting. It should work for your sketchbooks, too.” Zina snorted. “Weird. Thanks.

puts a bookmark in the book to keep his place,

Charlotte ran a finger over a book on the nightstand. And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie. A bookmark was positioned about half-way through the novel. “She didn’t finish her book.

Ugly or not, I could still kiss you if I wanted to, and you’d let me.” I choked on the rich cocoa in my mouth, my book dropping to the ground and closing without a bookmark. Shoot. “Why would you ever think that?” I’d turned to him, scandalized. He’d leaned close, one flat chest to another. He’d smelled of something foreign and dangerous and wild. Of golden California beaches, maybe. “Because my dad told me good girls like bad boys, and I’m bad. Really bad.

Her eyes got as big as a labrador's when she looks at Alicia's books, all with bookmarks halfway through.

Now that San Francisco's real estate market had exploded in value, this ramshackle old structure was probably one of the most desired addresses in the neighborhood. With its historic charm and detail, the Sunrose Building, as it was called, was undoubtedly candy corn for real estate developers. The name of the building apparently came from a detail at the roofline---a winking sun. The bookstore's sign and logo incorporated the image. The shop's signature bookmark, printed on the old letterpress and given out with every purchase, bore the image with the slogan An Eye For Good Books.

There were ornaments she had loved and paintings she had chosen. Books she’d read, or would never finish, photographs which had smashed from their frames as they’d hit against the metal. Photographs she had dusted and cared for, of people who were clearly no longer here to claim themselves from the debris. It was so quickly disposed of, so easily dismantled. A small existence, disappeared. There was nothing left to say she’d even been there. Everything was exactly as it was before. As if someone had put a bookmark in her life and slammed it shut.

Stacey S was still preoccupied with college applications. Adelaide found her shockingly ambitious. They had both taken the tests and written early drafts of the common application essay. Alabaster forced them to do all that. But Stacey, with her spreadsheets and bookmarked web pages, took on the college process with ferocity. She had brought a big book of colleges with her on the bus. The pages were marked with sticky notes in different colors.

I managed a single glance over my shoulder, and what did my gaze fall upon but my encyclopaedia, pages stacked tidily beneath my paperweight, little bookmarks sticking out the sides indicating sections requiring revision. That pinnacle of faerie scholarship, which I had only weeks ago likened to a museum exhibit of the Folk, neatly pinned down and labelled by the foremost expert on the subject---that is, me---brimming with meticulously documented accounts of foolish mortals who bumbled into faerie plots and games.

Blakely: You don’t have shelves? Halsey Holmes, that’s sacrilege to a book lover. Don’t you know the essentials to anyone who loves to read is a bookmark, a favorite snack, bookshelves, and a guilty pleasure genre that you read and don’t tell anyone about?

Every now and then, he pulled the books out and touched the bookmarks but hadn't yet found the strength to pick up where they left off, to read the rest of the story.

She looks up when she sees me, and she sticks a bookmark inside her book. I always dog-ear pages, but she hates doing that. She treats her books so delicately.

kept getting hotter. I took the hint and retrieved my own book out of my purse, flipping to the bookmark in the middle of chapter eleven of Jennifer L. Armentrout’s Half-Blood.