#Library of America

[morlock-holmes]

Excerpts from the diary of John Quincy Adams, about a profoundly heartbreaking and unjust example of slavery.

One thing I was frequently told growing up, in regards to American slavery was, "We can't judge the people of the past by the standards of today."

Well, frankly as I get older I become less interested in judging, say, a Washington or a Jefferson. They're dead, and sadly we cannot emancipate their slaves.

But what I have found out actually doing some reading of primary sources is that the abolitionist cause was, *from the very beginning*, rooted in exactly the same moral objections to slavery that one would voice today.

That a man ought to be paid fairly for honest work; that it is reprehensible to sell a wife or a husband away from their family; that a man ought to be free to pursue his own education; that slaveholders raped their slaves and disowned their own children and this was profoundly wicked on all the levels that it sounds unfathomably wicked to you and me; that it is monstrous to beat, brand and torture men in your care.

All the things you would say to argue against the "peculiar institution" were said, in the way you would say them, by the abolitionists as soon as there were abolitionists.

Opposition to slavery in America was rooted, from the beginning, in the same moral intuitions that you and I share about slavery in America.

Slavery was also frequently defended back then, as today, by simply lying about what it was and pretending that the horrible things didn't actually happen.

[lovingsylvia]

!NEW RELEASE!

Title: I Am the Arrow: The Life & Art of Sylvia Plath in Six Poems

Author: Sarah Ruden

Publication date: 25 Mach 2025

Publisher: Library of America

Pages: 128

About the book:

"One of our leading interpreters of ancient literature, acclaimed translator Sarah Ruden (the Aeneid) has long had a passion for Sylvia Plath’s poetry. In I Am the Arrow: The Life and Art of Sylvia Plath in Six Poems, she offers a profound reconsideration of Plath’s genius. Ruden argues that Plath is more than a consummate mythmaker; the poet herself takes on the role of the classical hero: striving, suffering, descending to an underworld that threatens meaninglessness and despair, and returning to speak the previously unspoken. For the first time, a writer and a woman becomes that hero.

“Original and compelling. This book will be an inspiration to new and seasoned readers alike.” -Amanda Golden, co-editor, The Poems of Sylvia Plath

“This book will help the next generation of readers, writers, critics and (not least!) young poets learn from what Plath proved she – and sometimes she alone – could do. There’s no introduction to this very popular poet with this kind of purpose or this kind of spareness or this kind of force.” -Stefanie Burt

“Plath’s triumph through language carries special warning and inspiration in the internet age. Words need the kind of care she gave them. They need to be invested with their full weight and seriousness, because they transform reality by performing in it. My favorite lines of Plath are in ‘Edge’: ‘Her bare / Feet seem to be saying: “We have come so far, it is over.”‘ It is a paradox, of course. Because Plath came so far, it is definitely not over; it is in fact a lesson in hope, in the possibility of things not being ended, in their enduring against all the odds.”"

Image source (cover & description): https://sarahruden.com//

[mossworth]

Guys, queers. Specifically my fellow queers.

I work at a library. We do this thing where, every so often, we weed the collection. It hurts to see books go, but it's necessary to make sure there's room in the library for new materials.

I have seen so much support for the library in text, and I've seen folks pass around those beautiful "queer your library" flyers. Keep doing that. That's great. Nothing wrong with that. But you HAVE to turn your words into action. We MUST remember to actually go to our local organizations and libraries and actually, with our own fucking hands, interact with these materials we want to see more of.

My branch is medium-sized for a library, maybe a little small. We don't have as many materials as I'd like, but we have fundamentals. Tell me why, even with all the verbal support I've gotten from my local community for the library as a resource for our LGBT+ community, every single trans biography and a good chunk of our vaguely queer theory books were on the list. This isn't a scheme to take the books off the shelves, it isn't another bigoted American governmental push. The only thing we look at when we weed is how long it's been since the last time the item was checked out.

Three years.

No one in my community interacted in any meaningful way with the few books on trans life and history we physically had on the shelves for three fucking years.

I promise you the materials you want and need are there, but this isn't a horde. This isn't a static safety net. You have to use them. You MUST use them or, in the future, maybe in three years, they *won't* be there anymore.

This isn't a vague post, there's no one person I'm hinting at or calling out. I'm not even talking directly to anyone who's directly in my line of sight. I just want everyone to hear this. Big library, small library, whatever. Doesn't matter. Please, we cannot be losing our shelf visibility like this.

[zoeflake]

Psychologist Erich Fromm first used the word biophilia when he described it as “the passionate love of life and all that is alive”. Biophilia as a concept became better known after the publishing of American biologist Edward O. Wilson's book ‘Biophilia’. Wilson defined biophilia as “the urge to affiliate with other forms of life”.

More info: source source source

Related: source

Biophilia (n.) — an innate and genetically determined love for the nature and living things, felt universally by humankind; a deeply engrained desire or tendency to commune with nature. The ancient memory that lives in our bones-a quiet longing to belong to the earth. A deep and sacred bond that awakens our senses and nurtures our souls. This connection isn't just poetic; it's primal. The term biophilia in fact, comes from the greek words bios (βίος) meaning life, and philia (φιλία) meaning love-literally translating to "a love of life." This love lives in the rhythm of our breath, in the way our bodies soften under the shade of ancient trees, and in the quiet joy we feel when our bare feet touch the soil. It's a remembering-of who we are and where we come from. To feel this pull toward nature isn't just a fleeting desire, it's a calling to come home.

[downthetubes]

MAD Magazine: Warping America’s Brain! - free online event

Britain’s Jewish Literary Foundation has announced a free online event, MAD Magazine: Warping America’s Brain!, as part of this year’s Jewish Book Week in March

[hayleylovesjessica]

Because I'm interested in reading James by Percival Everett at some point, most likely when it's out in paperback, I ordered the Library of America (LOA)'s volume of Mark Twain's Mississippi Writings, which include Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, which I haven't read since, IDK, I was 12. Instead of a nice copy with the classic LOA black dustjacket with red, white, and blue pinstripes, i.e., LOA's retail design, Amazon sent me a copy in a cream-colored slipcase and without the dustjacket, i.e., LOA's subscriber design. I'm kinda pissed.

[political-us]

[onlytiktoks]

[manessha545]

Librería Babilonia, Professor Atilio Lombardo Museum & Botanical Garden, Montevideo, Uruguay: The Museum has a library specialized in botany and gardening topics, both at school and high school level and in depth. Books are offered for consultation in the room, room and bibliographies. The Professor Atilio Lombardo Museum and Botanical Garden, better known as the Botanical Garden, is located in the El Prado neighborhood of Montevideo, Uruguay, which is administered by the Municipality of Montevideo. Wikipedia

[rainy-day707]

“read the comic runs in order!”

“you havent read ____??”

brother i walk over to the nearest library, go to the comic section, and let god guide my hands to the chosen ones.

[v-rg1l]

A reminder.

This will impact you. This will hurt you, your friends, your friends friends, your family, your coworkers, your classmates, your teachers, your doctors and nurses, your neighbors, your lovers. If they do not come for you first, that does not mean you are safe. Once they are done with the rest of us, they will come for you. That does not, however, mean you should despair. Use your time. Use your voice. You have so much power in your every action. Use them.

You can no longer use the excuse of being too young or too unknowledgeable or not having any power. You do. Do not forget this. Do not let them convince you otherwise. Sit down during the pledge. Stay up-to-date on current events. Ask your friends to join you in raising awareness, even if it is limited to your small community. Put up posters and stickers around town and in public spaces. Cover up and tear down hate you see.

Educate yourself. Educate your friends and family. At the same time, do not fully trust anyone. Do not ever out someone - whether that be as queer or trans or as an undocumented person or someone who needs certain medical care currently being eliminated. If anyone asks you about someone's status (who they voted for, if they are queer, if they are getting/got an abortion, their citizenship status), you do not know anything. Do not forget what is going on around you and around the world. The suffering of others does not end just because yours has only begun. But together, the weight can be lessened.

Be prepared. Participate in mutual aid, even if that just means sharing food or comfort with those you know need it. If you cannot think of anyone, find them. Participate in local elections - and if you cannot, boost the voices of those who can. Go to your local library. Support public services. Start making copies of documents and videos and any media you can find online that is at risk of being eliminated. Save it to your device, print it out (many public libraries will do this for you, if at a small cost), burn it to a disk. Nothing is safe, nothing is permanent. They can and will take it away. Buy books and textbooks that are at risk. Make sure your friends are doing this too.

Never offer up information not specifically asked for. Know your rights. Be clear and specific in your requests and do not let them trick you. Ask for signed proof. Get your lawyer. Know your surroundings. Raise awareness. Stay safe.

These next years will be hell; it has already begun. But we will survive. We always have. If only on spite and anger we have done it. And we will do it again. By all that lives and dies we will do it again.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dark Shelves 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, bullying, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes (archivist AU)

Summary: your new job is much of the same, with a hit of new misery.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

"We'll start you off with cataloguing. I trust you can handle that." James, or Bucky, whoever he is, says as he crosses his arms. "Figure we get the students to do as much. Title, creator or origin, date--"

"I'm aware. I've done a lot of it. In my previous role as an assistant. I believe this role is for junior archivist."

"Junior," he tilts his head. "It's your first day. Don't stress."

You tug on your blouse. It's hot among the shelves.

He untangles his arms and taps the table to his right. "You can set up shop here."

"I believe the role came with an office." You reply.

"Easier here," he motions to your left. "Those boxes."

You glance over at the banking boxes marked with sharpie. "Library two counties away. They had a fire. Municipality cut funding after that. We got most of their historical documents."

"You said the students usually do this?"

"It's a good learning activity. I said I'd train you." He shrugs and hooks his thumbs in his front pockets. You bite on your cheek to keep it from twitching.

"I can more than handle your leftovers," you assure him.

You step past him and grab a box. You heave it up and turn awkwardly. It's not too heavy, just heavier than you expected. He comes up to you and grabs the other end of the box.

"Let me do that," he tries to slip it out of your grasp.

"I can do it--"

He forces it free so the cardboard chafes your fingers. He snorts and turns, carrying it easily to the table. He drops it without mind to the noise.

"Don't think we put heavy lifting in the job description," he rests his hand on the lid. "Don't want you hurting yourself, doll face."

"Respectfully," you circle around the table. "That's not my name."

You turn to the table as you pull out a chair. You drag the box across it and put your bag next to it. You push your sleeves up and lift the lid. You take your time as you stir in your bag. You set out your things meticulously. You have a system.

You sit as you slide out the first document. He comes around with tags and sets them by you. You thank him without looking.

"One hour for lunch. Your choice when. Noon usually works. I'm sure you'll be counting down the seconds." He drawls.

"Sounds good," you adjust your glasses.

He lingers. You tag the first document. You'll alphabetize them as you go.

"Am I missing something?" You glance up.

He stares at you, cheeks dimpling as his eyes scale you. He shakes his head.

"No, looks like you have it all figured out."

He taps the table with two fingers and pushes away. You ignore his departure even as he makes his steps especially distracting. It isn't the first time you've dealt with passive defiance. He might be your superior but you've done nothing to earn his suspicion.

You fall into the familiar with only a hint of resent. You're doing the work they give to temps. Not like it isn't important but you were looking forward to doing more than just tagging and bagging. Still, you won't complain. That's what they want.

The chafe of paper is the only noise aside from the scratch of your pen. You work efficiently as you make piles for different letter groups. A-F, G-N, so on and so on.

You pause to strip off your chest as sweat slakes down your temples. Your scalp is itchy with the heat. You tug at your collar as you blow out a deep breath.

"How are you liking it?" The deep timbre breaks your concentration. You finish the tag and sort the file into one of the stacks.

"Nothing too unusual," you answer the man. The one who called himself Rogers. "Simple enough."

"Uh huh," he leans on a shelf, one hand on his hip. "Quiet work. Easy."

"Better than sitting in the boxes untouched," you toss back.

"Ha, fair enough. They've been doing that a while." His lips curve slightly. "So, you fresh out of grad school?"

"I have experience."

"Oh, I can tell," he tilts his head. "I just figured... I read a study that attractive women tend to do better in interviews."

You flinch. Well, that didn't take long. You suppose if you cared, you would take that as a compliment.

"From my experience, competence tends to leave a better impression." You say calmly and slide out the next page.

"Seems like you have that in spades," he stands straight and nears the table. He touches the corner of the tallest stack. G-N. He touches the corner as he bends to read the top tag through his lenses. Suddenly, the paper flutters over the edge. "Oh, clumsy me." He steps back. "You know, my hands get dry in this heat. Can't seem to hold onto anything."

You look at him and your brows rise just a little. You set down your pen and stand. You round the corner of the table and bend, gathering up the pages. The brush together loudly as he backs up. You get them in hand then feel something against your trousers. You twitch then it presses firmer, right against your backside.

"Oops, sorry, it's so tight in here," Rogers says. "Archives are always so crowded."

He wiggles his pelvis so you feel him clearly through the layers of fabric. You stand up and spin away from him. You stare at him in disgust.

"Are you serious?"

"Hm? What? Look, I'm sorry about the paper. I was only looking--"

"You just--"

"Huh, imagine that. Junior archivist, not liking all this menial work so she presses up on the senior archivist, trying to get special treatment," he clucks. "She could just ask nicely. No one would need to know."

"I-- would never--"

"I'm sure. You must have a flourishing personal life."

You scoff. "You... you did it."

You look around, searching the edges of the ceilings and the corners.

"Cameras in common spaces only. The wiring is a fire hazard for the amount of paper in here." He explains. "Everything here is our little secret."

You gape at him. You shake your head and go all the way around the other side of the table. You sit and clear your throat.

"What secret?" You focus on keeping your voice steady. "I've only been cataloguing."

You set down the stack and start sorting. You ignore him as he remains. You don't look up even as you sense his movement. He rubs himself through his pants, barely a foot away.

"Lots of work to do," he growls. "I must be distracting you." You don't answer as you stay on task. He groans and drops his hand. "Alright, sweetheart. Keep up the good work."

He pets your head and walks away. As he disappears behind the shelves, you pause. You clutch the papers and stare at the blurred letters.

They're testing you. You're not going to let them win.

[nando161mando]

Behold.. Idaho becomes the first to require ID.. for the PUBLIC LIBRARY. Knowledge and Thinking is the enemy.

[imagine-docx]

poem bandit.

Summary: You work in the library and keep finding love poems hidden in the pages of the book. You assume it’s a prank until you finally meet the the author of said poems. [college!au]

Warnings: light swearing.

A/N: two pieces in one week? who am i? - amanda 💛

I see her walk the meadow wide,With sunlight dancing at her side.She does not know my name or face,Yet still she holds my heart in place.

I speak no word, I make no sound,Just watch her footsteps grace the ground.A love so close, yet far to roam—She is the dream I call my own.

Was the first of the many poems that you found in art books in the book return.

You started receiving poems about four months ago. Initially, you thought it was just someone working on something and they accidentally left it in a book and returned it. You notified your colleagues that in case someone came looking for it, it would be in the black binder behind the desk.

At some point you deemed it as a prank because you were constantly getting them and the weird part was, the books were only returned when you worked. You brushed it off thinking it was another pateron playing a prank, until it started being left on the desk. 

One night it was just you and Wanda working the library during midterm season, when the poem was left in the book on the check in desk. You were busy reshelving the books and Wanda was in the bathroom so neither of you were able to catch the culprit.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

You, Wanda, and Nat were walking to the student lounge to grab something to eat after your 10 am Digital Cultures and Social Media class. “Memes as modern mythology,” Nat grumbled, “Who the fuck analyzes memes?”

“Are you still pressed about the assignment?” You asked.

“She didn’t start,” Wanda pointed out.

“Hold on, Ms. Romanoff didn’t start an assignment yet?” You asked in disbelief.

“God forbid a woman has other classes she has to deal with,” Natasha said while taking a sip of coffee.

You opened the door and held it open for Wanda and Nat, “You are the queen of multitasking, I simply don’t believe that you can’t manage time properly.”

“She has new priorities,” Wanda said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“He is not distracting me,” Natasha hissed.

“We never mentioned a he,” You retorted.

The three of you lined up for the hot bar place, “Are you still getting those poems?” Natasha asked, changing the topic.

“You are changing the topic!”

“Nothing is gonna happen with that love life, might as well interrogate the one that seems to have movement,” Natasha said. 

“He keeps leaving poems on the front desk for her,” Wanda chimed.

“It’s not for me,” you shot back.

“You are the only one getting them, it doesn’t happen when I work. Doesn’t happen when Carol works. Doesn’t happen when Peter works. There’s one common denominator,” Wanda argued.

“It’s a prank,” you declared.

“Who the fuck goes through that much writing, and hassle to ensure you get it, and it happens to be a prank. Be fucking for real.” Natasha argued.

“Nat’s right you know? If it was a prank they would do maybe five max. It’s been what? Five months?” Wanda stated

“Four,” you corrected under your breath.

“See! So you do know!” Wanda said in a matter of a fact tone.

“Have you ever tried, I don’t know, checking who checked out the book,” Natasha said to the both of you. You and Wanda looked at each other in disbelief. “You two dimwits didn’t think of this?”

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

You and Wanda were working late at the library again. You both delegated tasks to each other, so the faster you two finish, the faster you two can go back to gossiping. You were putting glue into the spine of a book to fix it. 

“Excuse me?” 

That snapped you out of your concentration, you looked up and your jaw almost dropped. Standing in front of you was the cutest man you’ve ever seen. “Hi,” you smiled, “How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you could check if there was a book in the library for me?” He asked. 

“Of course,” you jiggled the mouse, “What’s the title?”

“Indigenous Enslavement in U.S. History,” he said, reading the title off his phone.

You typed it in and searched through the system, “This one seems popular, both copies are out.”

“Shit,” he cursed.

“Need it for an assignment?” You asked, looking at him.

“Yeah, I have time though. It’s due in a few weeks, I just wanted a head start.” He said.

“You’re better than me,” you joked, “I would’ve waited until three days before it’s due.”

“You’re better than my roommate, he would wait until the morning of to do it,” he joked.

“One copy comes back on Thursday if you want?” You asked.

“Can I hold it?” He asked.

“Of course, let me grab your name,” you clicked on the field.

“Steve Rogers,” he responded.

“Nice to meet you,” you replied and introduced yourself.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he said.

“Thank my parents for it,” you joked again, “You’ll get an email to come collect it when it gets back in the library.”

“Thank you,” he said with gratitude. 

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

You were in the kitchen making tea, when you felt someone nudge your ribs. “So who was that?” 

“Nothing gets past you, huh?” You asked, pouring a spoonful of sugar into the cup.

“You two totally hit it off,” Wanda said, grabbing her own cup.

“It was someone looking for a book, nothing romantic about that,” you retorted.

“He was making googly eyes at you!” She exclaimed.

“He was probably making googly eyes at Indigenous history,” you said, pouring the hot water into the cup. 

“Are you that dense?” Wanda asked. 

“Wanda, this is a library, where people come to study and find books. Not find love.” You stated, pouring milk into your tea.

“Oh my god, what if he’s the poem bandit?” Wanda exclaimed.

“That’s where your mind went to?” You asked, walking out with Wanda trailing closely behind.

“Give me a valid reason as to why he can’t be the poem bandit?” She asked.

“He was looking for a boo—” You stopped in your tracks.

Wanda looked at you confused, she followed your eyes and looked to where you were staring. There sat another art history book with a piece of paper sticking out. “Poem bandit!”

You slowly put down your cup and hesitated to pick up the book, your photos gently grazed the cover. You picked it up and pulled out the poem.

You walk like morning—soft and slow,Where flowers bloom and robins go.The world feels lighter when you’re near,Like every cloud forgets to fear.

I don’t know when or how or why—Just that you’re sunshine passing by.And though you haven’t seen me yet,My heart writes songs it won’t forget.

Wanda immediately smacked your arm and pushed you to the side, “Move, let me see who checked this out.”

You held the note in your hand and kept rereading it.

Wanda scanned the barcode, “It hasn’t been checked out.”

The two of you looked at each other, dumbfounded.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

“So you guys found nothing,” Natasha said, throwing down the french fry she was holding.

You and Wanda returned home after 12 am from your shift and grabbed food for the three of you on the way back.

“Nat, the book was last checked out in 2022,” Wanda said, taking a bite of her burger.

“So the man is just in the library, writing poems and leaving,” Natasha said, putting together the pieces.

“I think it’s the blond guy she was talking to today,” Wanda stated.

Natasha shot a look at you, while you were getting up to go to the kitchen. “Who?” she asked.

“Wanda is convinced that a random pateron who was looking for a book is what she calls the poem bandit,” you responded, grabbing napkins from the kitchen.

“How can you be so sure it isn’t him?” Wanda once again interrogated.

“Wanda, not everyone is the poem bandit.” You stated.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

You, Wanda, and Natasha were in the library. You were sitting in the high chair, Wanda stood leaning against the book return, and Natasha was standing on the other side of the checkout desk. “This was the book,” Wanda said, handing the book to Natasha.

“Can we put the poem bandit behind us?” You asked.

“He is infatuated by you!” Wanda exclaimed, “We have to meet him.”

“You wanna meet the soul that leaves me poems?” You asked.

“He keeps torturing you, of course we want to meet him,” Natasha joked.

“Excuse me?” Someone called out.

You looked up and saw Steve. “Hi Steve.”

“Hi, your book is in. Let me grab it for you.” You smiled, getting up. 

Wanda and Natasha shot looks at each other while you and Steve were exchanging small talk whilst checking out the book.

Steve got the book and bid goodbye to the three of you and going to sit at a table.

“I see where Wanda is coming from,” Natasha laughed.

“God, not you too,” you groaned.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

For the week, you were dealing with nonstop teasing from Wanda and Natasha over the poem bandit and Steve.

You were reshelving books when Peter came up, “Could you watch the front for a second? I need to use the washroom,” he shyly asked. 

“Go,” you smiled, “I got you.”

Peter thanked you profusely and ran off to the staff washroom. You looked over to the clock and saw you had about an hour left on your shift. You walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. 

You were looking at your phone and walked out and noticed a figure leaving a book on the desk, “Hey!” you called out.

The person froze, you walked up to the desk, “Steve?” You questioned.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

“You’re the poem bandit?” You asked.

Steve started stuttering and tripping over his words. With all the random words he was spewing, he finally said a coherent sentence. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think you would find out.”

“Was this entire thing a prank?” You asked.

“No, no no. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk to you.” He said, scratching the back of his neck.

“Why didn’t you come up and try talking to me?” You questioned.

“Do you not read the poems?” He joked, “You’re so outgoing, it’s actually intimidating.”

“But you asked me about the Indigenous history book?”

“Only after one of my friends told me I was a pussy, I couldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“So you mean the poems?” You asked, once again.

“Every word in it. You caught my eye since the summer, and I couldn’t bring myself to talk to you,” he said sheepishly.

“Your poems were the highlight of my shift,” you said, smiling at him.

His face lit up, “Can I take you out properly this weekend?”

“Of course you can, poem bandit.”

[hwsforeignrelations]

It’s not every year I can Mr Murica struts his stuff better than the last.

NICE GAMS DARLIN!!!