you do not close mid-sentence. you read to the end of the paragraph, even if your eyes have gone elsewhere twice. you mark the place — with the ribbon if the book has one, with a scrap of paper if it does not, never with a folded corner. then you shut the book. not slammed, not whispered: shut.
you hold the closed book on your lap for a second. one breath. this is the smallest part of the rite and the part most readers forget. you are letting the words settle into the paper for the night. you may, if you wish, think the last sentence you read; some readers say it under their breath, as a way of keeping it somewhere besides the page.
then you set the book down. on the bedside, on the floor, on the chair — but spine to the wall, never spine to you. the ribbon hangs out. the lamp goes out next. by morning the book will have read itself a little further on its own, which is not impossible, only quiet.
— field note: a book closed without the breath will fall open again in the night. you will not see it. only the cat will, and the cat is no longer telling.