Wall Art Of Books Novels & Stories

Wow. I was drooling. It wasn't just a room with books. It was a sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with hardcovers, a rolling ladder, a massive fireplace that looked like it hadn't been used in decades. The scent of old paper and leather hit me, comforting and familiar. I ran my finger along the spines. ‘The Art of War’, ‘Sun Tzu’. ‘Histories of the Roman Empire’. Biographies of kings and conquerors. Heavy stuff. Interspersed with them were fiction classics. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dumas.

I chuckled. "Fore-edge painting is... like a painting, or a form of painting, on the edge of the book, where we turn the book! In the end. So when the book is closed... it puts that part like a painting, yes it can be simple or complex... it's free, there are several genres.. like boho, simplicity to natural art... modern art? Yes, it's free! It's just like a medium there, so it adds to the function of the book too, if you put it there it can be a display." I explained.

I trailed my fingers along the wall, passing a beautiful piece of abstract art, then a framed black-and-white photograph of a city skyline. As I turned a corner, a set of double doors caught my eye—one open, the other ajar. Inside, the sunlight revealed a stunning private library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three of the walls, packed with novels, history books, business manuals, old classics. A rolling ladder was attached to the shelves, and thick, inviting armchairs sat in the center of the room, clustered around a low glass table stacked with more books. I stepped inside reverently, feeling like I had stumbled into a secret place.

The natural light streaming in cast a warm glow over the sleek, modern furnishings, yet the space had an undeniable sense of power and authority. The walls were adorned with tasteful, minimalist art pieces—abstract designs in bold, dark colours that conveyed strength and confidence. One wall featured a built-in bookshelf, its shelves lined with an impressive collection of business and strategy books and a few personal mementos that hinted at the CEO's journey and achievements.

Done by someone who meant it. I turned around slowly and looked at the walls. Paintings. Six of them, maybe seven, hung in a loose arrangement on the wall across from the bed. Not printed reproductions, actual paintings, canvas and oil, the kind with texture you could see from across the room. Garden scenes. City rooftops. One of the sea, grey and restless. And beneath the paintings, on the long desk pushed against the wall, a row of sketchbooks. Eight or nine of them, standing upright, spines facing out. Beside them, loose sheets in a neat stack, held down with a smooth stone.

The largest bookshelf I have ever seen occupies the west wall with sprawling dark stained walnut and hand-carved little wolves at the top of either side. There is a large bay window in the center that overlooks a small, rocky pond. The urge to run to the nook and crawl in it with a blanket and just stare at nature for days is overwhelming. But I know better than to assume relaxation is on the list of things for me to do. I run my eyes along the south wall, noting the forest green walls and the stunning water paintings that make the whole thing grand. Opulent splashes of purples and dark blues create the night sky with speckles of gold mimicking the stars. Beautiful in its messiness.

Shelves packed with books took up all the spaces on the walls, except for the wall where the window was and the one next to the bed, which had another mural painted. This time, a vast meadow. With grasses of the color yellow, orange, and green, covered the horizon, dusted with the gold of the setting sun. Further than that, trees that had become small due to the distance and perspective of the viewer aligned. Up above, birds flew, joyful and free, unraveling the sky that was slowly veiled by the shadows of the night. "You have a lot of books," She commented with a smile, "You'd definitely get along with my friends . . ." She trailed off, noticing the pillows on my bed. "What’s that?"

It had felt real. Welcome rays of daylight and reality peeked through dark blue sheaths as his bedroom curtains came into focus. He scanned the familiar clutter that lay on the black dresser and armoire by the door, as well as on the nightstand to his right. His eyes fell to the stack of books lying there. To root himself he read the titles: The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Running With Scissors, and Corrections. Underneath them lay Books Do Furnish a Room, photographs of home libraries he loved to look at to inspire his design creativity. He was an architect after all, even if he was a werewolf.

The liquid inside gleamed, too viscous to be wine. A massive couch rested against the far wall, carved with intertwining shapes that looked floral. Until the flickering light revealed the truth. Skulls, serpents, and curling thorns wound through the design, stretching and turning like they were alive. The cushions gleamed as if slick, absorbing the unnatural glow in a way that made them look wet, freshly stained. As she stepped forward, she stared at the towering shelves that loomed along the walls, crammed with books bound in cracked leather and strange tools. Jars of unknown murky substances swirled, while others stayed still as death. There was no dust, no disorder.

My eyes moved past the bed, taking in the rest of the room. The walls were lined with bookshelves. Dark wood, floor to ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes. Their spines were embossed with gold lettering, titles I couldn't read from this distance. The books were old. Heavy. They smelled like paper and dust and knowledge. Between the bookshelves, on the walls, were the weapons. Swords. Guns. Knives. They hung like art, like trophies, like something he was proud of. A collection of death, displayed with reverence.