1. (Source: mellifluousbookshelf, via englishmajormade)

  3. dyingofcute: fireplace library

    dyingofcute:

    fireplace library

  4. (Source: witlovesyou, via englishmajormade)

  6. booksdirect: “The way to a woman’s heart is through the bookstore.”

    booksdirect:

    “The way to a woman’s heart is through the bookstore.”

    (Source: fangirlamy)

  7. fuckyeahmanuscripts: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s handwritten manuscript of The Great Gatsby.

    fuckyeahmanuscripts:

    F. Scott Fitzgerald’s handwritten manuscript of The Great Gatsby.

    (Source: bookshavepores, via bookloving-twins)

  8. "We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright."
    Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (via larmoyante)

    (via englishmajormade)

  9. allmymetaphors: did you know that i collect vintage books because I do here is an old book of shakespeare that I bought at a yard sale for $1 it is so beautiful and full of illustrations and I love it 

    allmymetaphors:

    did you know that i collect vintage books because I do here is an old book of shakespeare that I bought at a yard sale for $1 it is so beautiful and full of illustrations and I love it 

    (via englishmajormade)

  10. "It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write. Let them think you were born that way."
    Ernest Hemingway (via ilovereadingandwriting)

    (Source: writersdigest.com, via ilovereadingandwriting)

About

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing. (Harper Lee)

I nearly always write, just as I nearly always breathe.
(John Steinbeck)

When I don’t write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.
(Anaïs Nin)

With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw its fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy.
(Haruki Murakami)

I stepped into the bookshop and breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling.
(Carlos Ruiz Zafón)

He loved a book because it was a book; he loved its odor, its form, its title. What he loved in a manuscript was its old illegible date, the bizarre and strange Gothic characters, the heavy gilding which loaded its drawings. It was its pages covered with dust — dust of which he breathed the sweet and tender perfume with delight.
(Gustave Flaubert)

I whispered the thrilling words to myself, then lifted the book to my nose and breathed the ink from its pages. The scent of possibilities.
(Kate Morton)



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Contributor: womenreading.tumblr.com


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