This is not a story about how books are good and the Internet is evil, nor is it about how modernity has vanquished antiquity and, therefore, doomed posterity.
Although.
The Bookhouse feels like a safe house. It announces itself, barely, with tiny lettering on the front porch. It is for stumbling upon, a anachronism in a universe ordered by Google at a time when life is completely searchable and the exhaustive hunt for a vellum-jacketed gem has been reduced to a simple tap on a touch screen.
It’s a love story about two people and their books, falling in love with each other, falling in love with the pages. It’s so cute you won’t believe it’s true, but it’s the kind of thing no one could believably invent.
D’aww
