1. theladygatsby: With all of the recent ballyhoo about Zelda, let’s not forget F. Scott’s First Lost Love Ginevra King, inspiration for Daisy Buchanan, Judy Jones and so many of his moonlit and nostalgic ideals.

    theladygatsby:

    With all of the recent ballyhoo about Zelda, let’s not forget F. Scott’s First Lost Love Ginevra King, inspiration for Daisy Buchanan, Judy Jones and so many of his moonlit and nostalgic ideals.

    (via gatsbylives)

  2. "The girl looked around the bookshop and took a deep breath. “That smell, I just love it, don’t you?"
    Out of the Easy by Ruta Sepetys (via prettybooks)

  3. (Source: laetificus, via wordpainting)

  4. (Source: livros-books, via memoirs-of-a-paper-town)

  5. "It was good to walk into a library again; it smelled like home."
    Elizabeth Kostova; The Historian (via wordpainting)

  6. (Source: dailydoseofstuf, via memoirs-of-a-paper-town)

  7. "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."
    A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway (via literarylust)

    (via booklover)

  8. (via weaveadream)

  9. theparisreview: Ernest Hemingway on his sixtieth birthday.

    theparisreview:

    Ernest Hemingway on his sixtieth birthday.

    (via grayskymorning)

  10. (Source: reddragonri, via memoirs-of-a-paper-town)

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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