How sweet time feels
when it’s too late

and you don’t have to follow
her swinging hips

all the way into
your dying imagination

"Sweet Time," a poem by Leonard Cohen from his book Book of Longing. (via leonardcohenminute)

bound-bliss:

Miniature Book Necklaces @CarasBookishCharms

(via teacoffeebooks)

Someone who thinks himself incomplete is merely young.
Italo Calvino (via openbookstore)
classicpenguin:

This is too fun not to share.
We recently received a letter from a perceptive Classics reader noting a possible error in our current edition of Jane Eyre. Here’s the passage in question — a John Reed tirade:

"Where the dickens is she?," he continued. "Lizzy? Georgy (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mamma she is run out into the rain — bad animal!"

Joan? Joan Eyre? Surely not. Fascinated, we took this query Stevie Davies, editor of our current edition and resident Bronte expert, who gave us this enlightening answer.

Delighted to be asked, and it’s a good question, asked by a keen-eyed reader, because it picks up some of the meticulous verbal nuancing and class inflection that make Jane Eyre so authentic a social document. John Reed is calling Jane by a version of her name he considers proper to the lower ranks. This goes right back - Shakespeare: ‘Greasy Joan doth keel the pots.’

Oh, the ever-so-subtle art of the Victorian dis. John Reed is such a toad. Can someone please prepare a list of low-rent versions of common names so we can bring these insults back?

classicpenguin:

This is too fun not to share.

We recently received a letter from a perceptive Classics reader noting a possible error in our current edition of Jane Eyre. Here’s the passage in question — a John Reed tirade:

"Where the dickens is she?," he continued. "Lizzy? Georgy (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mamma she is run out into the rain — bad animal!"

Joan? Joan Eyre? Surely not. Fascinated, we took this query Stevie Davies, editor of our current edition and resident Bronte expert, who gave us this enlightening answer.

Delighted to be asked, and it’s a good question, asked by a keen-eyed reader, because it picks up some of the meticulous verbal nuancing and class inflection that make Jane Eyre so authentic a social document. John Reed is calling Jane by a version of her name he considers proper to the lower ranks. This goes right back - Shakespeare: ‘Greasy Joan doth keel the pots.’

Oh, the ever-so-subtle art of the Victorian dis. John Reed is such a toad. Can someone please prepare a list of low-rent versions of common names so we can bring these insults back?

"Their mouths, which mere minutes before had been employed in the process of demolishing and ingesting various foodstuffs, were now jammed up damply against one another while still being used for breathing, which must have been more than a little uncomfortable."

"Bits of one jammed into bits of the other, dangerously close to some of the weakest and most important internal organs."

"With absolutely no regard for personal space, the two of them created an unnecessary amount of friction, generating sweat in the process."

outofprintclothing:

Remembering Kurt Vonnegut, who died on this day, April 11, in 2007.

(via openbookstore)

I’m not with my blue toes or my doggies
nor am I under any arched roof rotting blossoms
in my drain, sunlight pouncing upon me,
nor am I fixed like a tree, nor am I unfixed
like a wind. I ate an apple, that’s fine
and after Anthony left I got a whiskey.
I stared a bit like a shadow at a book,
a fold in my shirt showed a monk’s bowing head
in a column of dusty light, but I just basically
used it to cover up my arm which was prickling
now because of some awful thing within me.
Big nasty sun making me feel old and then
this lovely gold bird flew up to my lunch.
An actual family of little white turnips
rolling over in the boiling pot like some
clouds is how I act. A great blue sky for a bed
and that beauty make me happy again.
Joshua Beckman, “[I’m not with my]” (via brouhahamagazine)