The Library of Disposable Art — Bookmarks

The bookmarks hang around the house, mocking me.

Yeah, bookmarks are mean.

They are not just the rigid piece of rectangular paper that lets you know how much more you need to read before the end of the chapter.

no. They are the Greek Chorus of Literary Derision. They are laughing at your ass.

While putting books away on overstuffed shelves, I invariably come across some book that has a bookmark in it. It’s a reminder that here is another book I haven’t finished.

The book mark is that silent nudge that pantomimes laughter at my inability to finish a damned book anymore.

What with streaming old TV shows, to watching YouTube videos on how to make money from dryer lint, to my editor’s important Instagram posts, who has time for reading anything more than a menu on the DoorDash app?

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