Books (by Millie Clinton / mcphotography.org.uk)
  2. Beautiful!


    (Source: pansexualrevolutionary, via literaryparty)

  3. wordpainting:

Ye olde books


    Ye olde books

    (Source: slightlyignorant)

  4. (Source: prettybooks)

  5. (Source: prettybooks)

  6. "We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection."
    Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5 (1947-1955)

    (Source: larmoyante, via apunkvenus)

  7. adhemarpo:

Diego Rivera, Portrait de deux femmes, 1914.


    Diego Rivera, Portrait de deux femmes, 1914.

    (via womenreading)

  8. (Source: medleypond, via bookporn)

  9. instillustration:

The Emperor of Paris by Lars Henkel


    The Emperor of Paris by Lars Henkel

    (via booklover)

  10. "Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity. We cherish books even if unread, there mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access reassurance."
    A.E. Newton  (via paperlover)

    (Source: writingquotes, via booklover)


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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