Three vintage bookmarks discovered in old books.
My scanner did not reproduce their colours and quality well.
The first two are machine embroidered ribbon. The third, gold embossed leather.
In keeping with its probable late Victorian origin, the first, May the Giver and Receiver Meet in Heaven features a verse: Sweet and peaceful be thy life, serene as eve of summer day...
The second, Faith, Hope and Charity, repeats a verse from the hymn, Rock of Ages.
The third, likely of later manufacture, celebrates H.M.S. Victory :"On the morning of 21st October, 1805. The combined fleets of France and Spain then in sight," and purports to reproduce Lord Nelson's Prayer.
Ephemera of an age.
Being an uncivilized clod, I of course, seldom use a proper bookmark. I'll dog-ear a page, use another book , a pen, a candy wrapper -- or just about anything else conveniently at hand and relatively flat.
Today's bookmark explosion is wasted on me. No matter how beautiful their composition or how clever their message, for me they are advertising dollars ill spent.
They usually go in the recycle box as litter.
Yet bookmarks are often touted as one of those things a writer must have as an advertising freebie.
I have to wonder if they represent more a rite of passage than anything truly practical. A symbol and proof, a reassurance and confirmation, of a level attained.
In other words, an article of faith, as it were.
Some people love them. They see them as secondary business cards, doing double duty at cons and book signings.
And there it seems to stop. Like an internal office memo.
I did read of one creative use. Someone included her bookmark every time she paid a bill by snail. However, electronic commerce reduces that attractive option.
I assume writers w/bookmarks make sure their local library and bookseller have a supply.
One also reads of the guerilla tactic of sneaking up and down aisles of the bookstore turning their own or a favourite author face out -- but never of sliding a bookmark between the pages of random books in the genre at the library.
As charming as many are, for me, bookmarks are a tired convention and an exercise passe. A waste.