A museum of your reading.
Not a reading list to finish. A place where what a book left with you stays — the impression, the lines you kept, the photographs, the rating you gave it at the time.
Works offline. No account needed.
Not a reading list to finish. A place where what a book left with you stays — the impression, the lines you kept, the photographs, the rating you gave it at the time.
Works offline. No account needed.
What it keeps
What stayed with you after this book — one sentence or a long note. Quotes with their page numbers, photographs of the pages you stopped at, and every reading with its dates.
Shelves you name yourself, series, authors, years. Twenty-four marks for how a book felt, three at most on any one book — a feeling you have to choose is a feeling you remember.
Halls built from nothing but your own records: the Hall of Feelings, the Hall of Genres, and an Exhibition of every photo you have laid into a book.
The book page
The cover, the rating you set, how it felt, and underneath — the diary: what you wrote, the lines you kept, the photographs. Nothing is required. A book with a rating and nothing else is a perfectly good record.
Ten points, in halves. One tap sets it, and it can be cleared again.
Written in the same serif it is read in. It saves itself — there is no save button.
Each with its page number, so a line can be found again in the paper book.
The page, the bench, the ticket you used as a bookmark.
The museum
Most often, your museum feels beautiful and atmospheric.
Every feeling your books have carried — the most frequent first.
What you read — and how it sat with you. An average appears after two rated books in a genre.
Every photo in the museum, hung by book — freshest walls first.
A hall stands quiet until enough books carry what it counts, and says how far you are: opens at ten books — seven so far.
How it dresses
A warm milky ground and near-black ink with a brown tint. The daylight museum.
Umber, not graphite — a bookshop after closing rather than a settings screen.
Amber halls, hand-drawn leaves that drift as you tilt the phone, an icon of its own. Part of the keeper's key.
One Main Hall, every dress — Paper, Ink, and autumn by day and after dark.
Yours
Tomeum is built to keep your reading private. Everything you add is stored on your phone; signing in exists for one purpose, and it is your choice.
Read the privacy policy →Works fully offline, and needs no account.
Sign in and your library is backed up to a private space only you can read, held in the European Union.
Anonymous statistics, which you can switch off. No ads, no ad tracking, nothing sold or shared.
The whole museum exports whenever you want it to.
The share card
A book you loved becomes a card: its cover, or a collage of the photographs you laid into it, with a small stamp and a QR that opens the museum. For the friend who always asks what to read next.
And when the friend is right beside you, the book's page shows its barcode — they point their Tomeum scanner at your screen, and the same edition steps into their museum.
Museum Keeper
Every record, cover and photo lives in the cloud. Your phone and tablet hold one and the same museum, and a new device receives it whole.
Autumn is already here: amber halls, falling leaves, an icon of its own. Winter comes next.
The Hall of Feelings, the Hall of Genres and the Exhibition — what the museum has understood about you from your own records.
If the subscription ends, nothing is lost. Everything you created stays with you, and the cloud copy waits for your return.
Tomeum is made by one person; the subscription is what the museum lives on. — the caretaker
Prices in US dollars — the stores show them in your currency. Adding books, ratings, the diary, quotes, photographs, share cards and export are free forever.
Point the camera at the barcode, or search by title — the book arrives with its cover.
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