It's not about the books

Well it's not always about the books; it's about information and reading, whatever the format, and writing and people who read or write. But it's also quite a bit about the books.

Disclaimer: most of the pictures on this blog belong to their respective owners. If you see your picture here and don't want it to be, email me with the link and I'll take it down straight away.

Scattered through the ordinary world there are books and artifacts and perhaps people who are like doorways into impossible realms, of impossible and contradictory truth.

—Jorge Luis Borges (via tattoosandtravels)

(via booklover)

Think of the thousands of beings that have been necessary for your lips to be warm under my kisses.

Reinaldo Arenas, Singing from the Well (via bookmania)


Public Library of Cincinnati & Hamilton County, the bookmobile in Columbia Park, circa 1940.


Public Library of Cincinnati & Hamilton County, the bookmobile in Columbia Park, circa 1940.

(via bookporn)

Books are funny little portable pieces of thought.

—Susan Sontag (via tumblerete)

(via bookporn)


March 30th 1853: Van Gogh born

On this day in 1853, the artist Vincent van Gogh was born in Zundert in the Netherlands. The young van Gogh had a keen interest in art, and continued to draw and paint into adulthood. As an adult van Gogh traveled extensively throughout Europe, exploring the different art scenes and becoming especially affected by the French Impressionists. Despite his talent and distinctive art style, van Gogh was unappreciated in his lifetime. The struggling artist also suffered from mental health issues, infamously cutting off his ear and eventually shooting himself aged just 37. In his tragically short life van Gogh left an impressive selection of work, with over 2,000 pieces of art attributed to him. When he died, van Gogh was a little known name; today he is a household name, due to the rediscovery of his art and praise for its unique style, bold colours, and emotionality.

Happy 161st birthday Vincent van Gogh

(via thingsthatstolemyheart)

As the hours crept by, the afternoon sunlight bleached all the books on the shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselves and warmed the paper and ink inside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air.

Maggie StiefvaterShiver (via duttonbooks)

(via literatureismyutopia)