1. (Source: misswallflower)

  2. blogjadore:

* ✿ ¸. ◦ * ‘`* ✿* ✿ ¸. ◦ * ‘`* ✿

    blogjadore:

    * ✿ ¸. ◦ * ‘`* ✿* ✿ ¸. ◦ * ‘`* ✿

    (Source: vestidoslindosatelier, via aquieterstorm)

  3. 
Passage Verdeau (by Audrey)
  4. wordpainting:

A nice place to read.

    wordpainting:

    A nice place to read.

    (Source: littledallilasbookshelf)

  5. (via bookporn)

  6. mortisia:

― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

    mortisia:

    Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

    (via bookporn)

  7. papertownbooks:

    wordpainting:

    youngadultatbooktopia:

    "Reading is probably another way of being in a place."
    - José Saramago

    So go. Be in a place.

    Make time to read

  8. slightlyignorant:

Yes, good, except I’d put the bed the other way so I could SEE the GLORY of my BOOKS.

    slightlyignorant:

    Yes, good, except I’d put the bed the other way so I could SEE the GLORY of my BOOKS.

    (via aquieterstorm)

  9. doubledaybooks:

Bookmarks made from old book spines.

    doubledaybooks:

    Bookmarks made from old book spines.

    (via bookporn)

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)



My Other Tumblrs: mustanggina.tumblr.com
diaryofadocent.tumblr.com
ifyougiveachildabook.tumblr.com

Contributor: womenreading.tumblr.com


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