1. bookpickings:

Forgotten Bookmarks: A Bookseller’s Collection of Odd Things Lost Between the Pages
Michael Popek
From actual bookmarks to photographs, ticket stubs, lists, scribbled recipes, children’s drawings, birth certificates, four-leaf-clovers, unsent love letters, and countless other funny, heartbreaking, and odd ephemera, this scrapbook of intriguing finds by a used bookstore owner Michael Popek opens a rare window into the private lives of anonymous strangers through snippets of their life stories.

    bookpickings:

    Forgotten Bookmarks: A Bookseller’s Collection of Odd Things Lost Between the Pages

    Michael Popek

    From actual bookmarks to photographs, ticket stubs, lists, scribbled recipes, children’s drawings, birth certificates, four-leaf-clovers, unsent love letters, and countless other funny, heartbreaking, and odd ephemera, this scrapbook of intriguing finds by a used bookstore owner Michael Popek opens a rare window into the private lives of anonymous strangers through snippets of their life stories.

    (via forgottenbookmarks)

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      want
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      WANT
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      Forgotten Bookmarks: A Bookseller’s Collection of Odd Things Lost Between the Pages Michael Popek From actual bookmarks...
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      A boarding pass from New York to San Francisco was left between the pages of my copy of “Naked”.

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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