aseaofquotes:

John Cheever, “The Sutton Place Story”

aseaofquotes:

John Cheever, “The Sutton Place Story”

 teachingliteracy:

library (by deepsleepdarling)
He loved books; books are cold but safe friends.
— Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (via simplybookdrunk)

(Source: observando)

I catch your eye. I, who had been thinking myself so vast, a temple, a church, a whole universe, confined and capable of being everywhere on the verge of things and here too, am now nothing but what you see.
— Virginia Woolf, from The Waves   (via thelostdeer)

(Source: victoriajoan)

 kurkmantolumadonna:

"Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear." Haruki Murakami

kurkmantolumadonna:

"Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear." Haruki Murakami

 maudelynn:

How to spend a Sunday Morning ~
via http://returntoloveliness.blogspot.com

maudelynn:

How to spend a Sunday Morning ~

via http://returntoloveliness.blogspot.com

(Source: maudelynn.tumblr.com )

 theparisreview:

A photograph of Ken Kesey at Hotel Excelsior by Allen Ginsberg, December 14, 1989.
 

(Source: word-stuck)

murakamistuff:

Haruki Murakami’s illustrated The Strange Library - exclusive preview

A schoolboy pops into the library to find a book on taxation in the Ottoman empire – this is his first mistake. The quest for knowledge takes an unexpected turn in Haruki Murakami’s The Strange Library, published for the first time in English this December. 

…curious way that my idealism has been mixed with my fatalism, so that I can possess the soul of a dreamer and that of a cynic at the same time.
— Anaïs Nin  (via thelostdeer)

(Source: whyallcaps)

 ejmellowbookends:

photo by Adrian Popescu
Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Mary Oliver, from “Some Questions You Might Ask” House of Light (Beacon Press, 1990)

(Source: sacredgraffiti)

 teachingliteracy:

México (by pslachevsky)
 afroui:

page from Sylvia Plath’s diary

afroui:

page from Sylvia Plath’s diary

From what point of view is she looking at life as she sits there, terribly sensitive, registering one after another such diverse impressions? She is a writer; a born writer. Everything she feels and hears and sees is not fragmentary and separate; it belongs together as writing.
— Virginia Woolf, from A Terribly Sensitive Mind (via afternoon—-tea)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)