1. loftylovin:

Library Room In Silo of Barn Home ~ 

    loftylovin:

    Library Room In Silo of Barn Home ~ 

    (via aquieterstorm)

  2. "Our battered suitcases were were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life."
    Jack Kerouac, On the Road (via excessivebookshelf)
  3. Getting the words right

    • Interviewer: How much rewriting do you do?
    • Ernest Hemingway: I rewrote the ending of "Farewell to Arms", the last page of it, thirty-nine times before I was satisfied.
    • Interviewer: Was there some technical problem there? What was it that stumped you?
    • Ernest Hemingway: Getting the words right.
  4. teachingliteracy:

By John Carleton
  5. fuckyeahcooldoors:

Prague, Czech Republic. 

    fuckyeahcooldoors:

    Prague, Czech Republic. 

    (via wordpainting)

  6. "Not all pioneers went west."
From The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris, by David McCullough (2011)
(Painting entitled Man at the Window by Gustave Caillebotte)

    "Not all pioneers went west."

    From The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris, by David McCullough (2011)

    (Painting entitled Man at the Window by Gustave Caillebotte)

  7. ennayak:

Purple Penguins (by apenguinaweek)

    ennayak:

    Purple Penguins (by apenguinaweek)

    (via excessivebookshelf)

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)

This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing.
(Azar Nafisi)



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Contributor: womenreading.tumblr.com


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