Even before it became officially so in the United States, April has long been the poet’s month. “April” (or “Aprill”) is the third word of one of the first great poems in the English language, The Canterbury Tales, and the first word in The Waste Land, which does its best to feel like the last great English poem. April — “spungy,” “proud-pied,” and “well-apparel’d” April — is also the most-mentioned month in Shakespeare, along with its springtime neighbor May, and it has given a poetic subject to Dickinson, Larkin, Plath, Glück, and countless others. Why? Do we like its promise of rebirth, its green and messy fecundity? Its hopefulness is easy to celebrate — and easy to cruelly undercut, if you’re T.S. Eliot rooting his lilies in the wasteland of death.
Tom Nissley, “April Books: A Reading List for Rebirth and Taxes” (via millionsmillions)
What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore it knows it’s not fooling a soul.
Neil Gaiman, American Gods (via bookoisseur)
(Source: duttonbooks, via lauriehalseanderson)
Books fall open, you fall in. When you climb out again, you’re a bit larger than you used to be.
Gregory Maguire (via kayleyhyde)
(Source: splitterherzen, via kayleyhyde)
Let’s talk about libraries. Libraries! “Oh, hello, are you a person? Great, you’ve met our qualifications. Please enjoy unlimited borrowing of any number of any books. Do we not have the book you seek? Let us know and we will buy it so that you can read it. You will owe us nothing. Stay as long as you want.” Libraries are like pleasant, real-life morphine dreams.