Melville House

is an independent publisher with offices in Brooklyn and London.

20 THINGS YOU MAY ENCOUNTER AT THE MELVILLE HOUSE BOOTH #805-806 AT THE BROOKLYN BOOK FESTIVAL, THIS SUNDAY, 9/21, FROM 10:00 - 6:00

1. Books for sale, at shockingly good prices

2. Melville House staff selling those books

3. Novellas and Neversinks in a never-ending battle for the Best Looking Small Trim Paperback Supremacy

4. 0.8 miles of extension cord (per Google Maps)

5. Almost enough bubble wrap

6. Slavoj Zizek’s non-union Brooklyn equivalent

7. Enough packing tape to restrain the books if they get agitated

8. One last bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 20 Yr Reserve

9. A tiny blue house that, when set upon your head, announces which borough you’re to be Sorted into (and this is final so no whining.)

10. A machine that melts Amazon gift cards into ploughshares

11. An advance screener of “Melville House Author Photos: The Outtakes”

12. Locally sourced iPad batteries

13. Custom-made Dr. Scholl’s insoles, the secret formula we can’t reveal except to say it’s carbon nanotubes

14. The machines we use to bring the Novel back from the dead

15. The definition of “scrivener” (not what you think)

16. Knausgaard repellent (hmm…)

17. Colophon gun (loaded)

18. A Bluetooth speaker blasting the entirety of Mastodon’s Leviathan on shuffle/repeat

19. The answers, all of the answers

20. A song-and-dance number featuring every New York small press, complete with 72-piece orchestra, pyrotechnics, Espresso book machine solo, and audience splash zone

An Arthur Russell cover for your Wednesday morning. One of my favorite songs by one of my favorite artists who watches me work all day (not in a creepy way.) See?

I swear I just have the Kerouac picture because of the cat.

rodham-clinton:

i’ve been an english major for 3 years how is this the first time i’ve heard this story

Look, there’s two sides to every story, okay, and I don’t think it’s fair to cast aspersions on just ONE of these guys when CLEARLY things were VERY COMPLICATED and there were DEFINITELY SIGNALS and TENSION that were RECIPROCAL and I just think you really have to look past the drama to see that love is a nuanced thing that maybe isn’t best understood at the time but you know in a few weeks or months or years Hawthorne realized what he’d lost and regretted it, and that it was his loss, and like, yeah. 

(via othernotebooksareavailable)

Nelson Van Alden: Father of the Year since 1931

English and creative writing majors, answering our future children’s STEM questions, forever and always.

(Source: athinglikethat)

The only music for a morning such as this. 

(I have to nerd out a little - Miles improvised this entire score by just watching clips from the movie and then jamming along with just the barest framework of where he wanted it to go. That’s the musical equivalent of someone going “build me a bridge without any blueprints, I’ll tell you how much traffic we expect and you can go from there” and you going “yeah okay.”)

You don’t need to be an artist to work in publishing, and you don’t need to be in publishing to work in DUMBO. But when you’re all of those things, you have the chance to finally confront the bane of all artists, publishers, New Yorkers, and anyone lucky/unlucky enough to be all of those things at once. I’m talking, of course, about nihilism.

The suspicion that maybe nobody listens, nobody cares, that maybe nothing you create or talk up impacts anyone, that maybe art is a lie and beauty is a superstition. And the fear that you may hit the point where you’re unable to extract more satisfaction from your art than the energy and hours it takes you to create it. Let’s call this nightmarish moment “Peak Bullshit”.

But when you’re the art director for a house of intensely focused and truly devoted publishing folks like us, you can kiss the spectre of Peak Bullshit goodbye. At Melville House your work is the guide and measurement for our readers; you’ll be working for a crew whose reputation for gorgeous and spiritually nourishing books is second to none. You can’t be new to the business; we’re looking for serious experienced applicants only. But what will be new for you are the opportunities that only we can offer, one of which is the chance to avoid Peak Bullshit once and for all.

Every one of us in the book business goes into it because we want to hold onto the idea that beauty’s a real thing and literature is more than just words on a page. Come show us you’re the same way.

books:

Save the date! Spread the word! And kick off the Brooklyn Book Festival and Bookends week with Tumblr, recommendedreading, penamerican, and buzzfeedbooks!
We’ll have Karl Ove Knausgård “My Struggle” Mad Libs with kickstarter at 8, dancing with DJ sammybananas at 9, and free drinks as long as they last.
Hope to see you there!

We can confirm that at least one of our illustrious staff will be heading to the party directly from work, as seen below:

And yes, of course Melville House has its own ski locker.

books:

Save the date! Spread the word! And kick off the Brooklyn Book Festival and Bookends week with Tumblr, recommendedreading, penamerican, and buzzfeedbooks!

We’ll have Karl Ove Knausgård “My Struggle” Mad Libs with kickstarter at 8, dancing with DJ sammybananas at 9, and free drinks as long as they last.

Hope to see you there!

We can confirm that at least one of our illustrious staff will be heading to the party directly from work, as seen below:

And yes, of course Melville House has its own ski locker.

And he’d dreamt of heading forth, one crisp, clear morning. Of setting off, before anyone had woken, as dawn broke. Of climbing up and up and up, following the course of the river to the foot of the glacier, and then climbing onto the ice. And then walking forth across the ice, up and only up, the sunlight dazzling his eyes.

He;d dreamt of the cairn left to commemorate his ascent. of the legends that would remain of his disappearance. And he’d dreamt of his own dead body, somewhere high and far and sun-touched. He’d dreamt of his frozen body, there above the clouds, there in the element of truth. There, where the winter sun blazed. There, where everything was frost-fire sharp and ice-clear.

And he’d dreamt of his frozen notebooks, full of truth, his brother said. He’d dreamt of his indecipherable writing, full of truth. He’d dreamt of the path he had trailed that none could follow. He’d dreamt that he had died of truth, of terrible truth. That truth had thrown its spear through him. That truth’s tears had frozen on his cheeks.

Lars Iyer, Wittgenstein Jr, p. 97. You do yourself no favors by neglecting to read Lars Iyer.

Happy first-breath-of-Autumn Monday, everyone.