Tiny, our delightful curmudgeon.
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Un día complicado en la biblioteca.
This is my new favorite Tumblr.
(via fuckyeahbookarts)
TONIGHT at Housing Works Bookstore Cafe: Storychord’s 50th Birthday Party
“…she had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!” — from TO THE LIGHTHOUSE by Virginia Woolf
“But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore…Also the sea tosses itself and breaks itself, and should any sleeper fancying that he might find on the beach an answer to his doubts, a sharer or his solitude, throw off his bedclothes and go down by himself to walk on the sand, no image with semblance of serving and divine promptitude comes readily to hand bringing the night to order and making the world reflect the compass of the soul. The hand dwindles in his hand; the voice bellows in his ear. Almost it would appear that it is useless in such confusion to ask the night those questions as to what, and why, and wherefore, which tempt the sleeper from his bed to seek an answer.” — from TO THE LIGHTHOUSE by Virginia Woolf
“We can live any way we want. People take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience—even of silence—by choice. The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting. A weasel doesn’t “attack” anything; a weasel lives as he’s meant to, yielding at every moment to the perfect freedom of single necessity. I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you.” — from the essay “Living Like Weasels” by Annie Dillard
“To be alive, it seemed to me, as I stood there in all kinds of sorrow, was to be both original and reflection, and to be dead was to be split off, to be reflection alone.” — from OPEN CITY by Teju Cole
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The book of the future: ♺ What goes around comes around.
(Source: 1001bookstoreadbeforeyoudie, via bookoisseur)
“Once I wanted this book all for myself, because it had written its alphabet upon my bones, so that both the shape of me and what the shape contained were made different.” — Matt Bell in the introduction to GRIM TALES by Norman Lock. HELL YES. This is exactly how I feel when I’m reading a book that I love.
This is so cool.
WANT.
Hats off to Geoff Sawers and Bridget Hannigan for their incredible hand-lettered poster of our literary United States. Get yours here.