1. (via memoirs-of-a-paper-town)

  2. book things » bookshops

    “What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore it knows it’s not fooling a soul.”

    ― Neil Gaiman, American Gods

    (via memoirs-of-a-paper-town)

  3. booksnbuildings: Cardiff Castle library, Wales. (via)

    booksnbuildings:

    Cardiff Castle library, Wales. (via)

    (via wordpainting)

  4. "You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the world, but then you read."
    James Baldwin

  5. (via prettybooks)

  6. helloimmrburns: I wish every building used their pillars so effectively.

    helloimmrburns:

    I wish every building used their pillars so effectively.

    (Source: safehavenofpaper, via memoirs-of-a-paper-town)

  7. greeneyes55: Galerie Vivienne Paris Photo: Paul Almasy 

    greeneyes55:

    Galerie Vivienne Paris

    Photo: Paul Almasy 

    (via booklover)

  8. aseaofquotes: Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Angel’s Game

    aseaofquotes:

    Carlos Ruiz Zafon, The Angel’s Game

    (via booklover)

  9. Go to a bookstore … you never know who will be there.

    Go to a bookstore … you never know who will be there.

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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