That’s right, you heard me: books having sex. You thought authors were a thing? *snort* This is how new books get written.
And once the young ‘uns are born, their herds roam the wilderness of their birth library, learning the ways of the shelves, the grumpy encyclopedias, and the dust bunnies.
When they get bored, they break out. Books love freedom.
When books die, they become the wings of 80s catalogue models.
Seriously. What the fuck? I found this art book by Peter Wüthrich while visiting friends in Holland. I couldn’t read the language it was written in, so I was free to imagine fucked-up back stories leading up to its creation. The hallucinations of books scurrying down the hall, the paranoia that you left that pile of first editions on a different table, the fear inspired by the sound of rustling paper and a thump in the hall getting closer and closer to your room as you huddle behind the bedroom door, clutching a book mark.
The reality is slightly more mundane, as it so often is. Peter Wüthrich is a Swiss artist who works almost exclusively with books. He may also be the only person in the world who has ever considered the copulation of novels. I am very glad that he exists.