(via reading-as-breathing)
Books and more books
For the love of reading
Woman reading. French postcard c1920s.
Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counsellors, and the most patient of teachers. Charles W. Eliot (1834 - 1926), The Happy Life, 1896.
True.
(via books-on-the-floor)
(Source: bookporn, via booksandahotbeverage)
“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.” ― Maurice Sendak
(via noseinabook)
People aren’t either wicked or noble. They’re like chef’s salads, with good things and bad things chopped and mixed together in a vinaigrette of confusion and conflict.
(via booksandahotbeverage)
Love it!
Every home should have one!
Available from Walker Books
(via teacoffeebooks)
(Source: impressionableyouth, via reading-as-breathing)
(Source: amandaonwriting, via teachingliteracy)
I liked it when my mother tried to teach me things, when she paid attention. So often when I was with her, she was unreachable. Whenever she turned her steep focus to me, I felt the warmth that flowers must feel when they bloom through the snow, under the first concentrated rays of the sun.
(Source: facebook.com, via teachingliteracy)
(Source: clashofclothes, via reading-as-breathing)
(Source: weasleycansaveanything, via booksandahotbeverage)
(Source: onceitallends, via reading-as-breathing)
Lee White
From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be mistaken for light—a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey through the darkness to the astronaut’s eyes.
In about one and a half centuries—after the lovers who made the glow will have long been laid permanently on their backs—metropolises will be seen from space. They will glow all year. Smaller cities will also be seen, but with great difficulty. Shtetls will be virtually impossible to spot. Individual couples, invisible.
The glow is born from the sum of thousands of loves: newlyweds and teenagers who spark like lighters out of butane, pairs of men who burn fast and bright, pairs of women who illuminate for hours with soft multiple glows, orgies like rock and flint toys sold at festivals, couples trying unsuccessfully to have children who burn their frustrated image on the continent like the bloom a bright light leaves on the eye after you turn away from it.
Some nights, some places are a little brighter. It’s difficult to stare at New York City on Valentine’s Day, or Dublin on St. Patrick’s. The old walled city of Jerusalem lights up like a candle on each of Chanukah’s eight nights…We’re here, the glow…will say in one and a half centuries. We’re here, and we’re alive.
