My name is Tim, and I’m a pagefolder.
I’d like to think I have a healthy relationship with my Stuff. I try to look after it, but I’m always secretly pleased when something new gets a bit of a scratch or a ding, so I can stop being precious about it.
Books, however, are another matter. I love reading, but I abuse my books purposefully and without mercy. I object strongly to the fetishisation of the printed word, to the idea that the act of printing and binding confers value upon the text, no matter the quality of the writing. And I hate being told books are ‘precious’.
Books are for reading. Books are for poring through and marking passages in pencil. Books are for cramming into your coat pocket as your train gets into the station; for chucking into a bag at the last minute; for reading in places with water, and sand and grass and mud. Books are for lending to friends and giving to strangers.
I got fed up of flipping between the text and footnotes in my copy of Ulysses at Uni - I tore my copy in half down the spine to make it easier. I am on my third copy of The Big Sleep, the previous two having lost pages and covers to their annual rereadings. I have bought Getting Things Done eight times in total, and have gifted, lent, defaced and lost every copy.
So yeah, I fold my page corners. And it warms my heart when I find someone’s got there first.