it is done in private, on a flat surface — a table, a sill, the lap. you set the book down with the spine away from you and let it sit closed for a moment. then you open it, not at the title page, but somewhere near the middle; you turn forty pages or so back, forty forward. you are not yet reading. you are letting the book learn the shape it will keep.
nothing is said aloud. some readers think the name of whoever gave them the book, or whoever wrote it. others think nothing at all, only the small dry smell of the paper. the rite is complete when the spine has cracked once, quietly, and the book lies open on the table without being held.
after this the book is yours in the way a borrowed coat is yours after a night in the rain. you may take it to the library if you wish, or read it in the kitchen; either way it has been opened, and a closed book it will never again be.
— field note: a book opened too sharply will remember. a book opened too gently will sulk. neither is fatal; both are noticed.