bookriot:

This statue of Edgar Allan Poe > all other statues.

Ok. This is just awesome.

If Famous Authors Read One-Star Reviews of Their Books - BOOK RIOT

pippinish:

Day 16: Favorite book fandom
Basically all of Middle Earth!

See that gold box set over to the left holding the other books up? That actual box set was the first American box set ever made. If you can find a first printing of that box set …

pippinish:

Day 16: Favorite book fandom

Basically all of Middle Earth!

See that gold box set over to the left holding the other books up? That actual box set was the first American box set ever made. If you can find a first printing of that box set …

I turned the pages so fast. And I suppose I was, in my mindless way, looking for a something, version of myself, a heroine I could slip inside as one might a pair of favourite shoes.
Ian McEwan (Sweet Tooth)
theparisreview:

You’ve been away, your hair blond from sun—
not seeing you servesthe opposite effect,distance gives over to intimacy.
The wake from a boat. The city anchoredacross the river, a series of shadows.I crumple the paper from an ice cream cone.Your hand rests on the iron arm of the bench.
Is this what the endaffords—no further use for worry?
It’s getting dark earlier again;there won’t be many more days as mild as this.Let’s sit here a little while more.
—David Semanki, from “East River.” Art: Charles H. Davis.

theparisreview:

You’ve been away, your hair blond from sun—

not seeing you serves
the opposite effect,
distance gives over to intimacy.

The wake from a boat. The city anchored
across the river, a series of shadows.
I crumple the paper from an ice cream cone.
Your hand rests on the iron arm of the bench.

Is this what the end
affords—no further use for worry?

It’s getting dark earlier again;
there won’t be many more days as mild as this.
Let’s sit here a little while more.

David Semanki, from “East River.” Art: Charles H. Davis.

Like so many other nerdy, disaffected young people of that time, I dreamed of becoming an ‘artist’, i.e., somebody whose adult job was original and creative instead of tedious and dronelike.
David Foster Wallace; The Pale King
slightlyignorant:

Awesome pull-out bookshelves

Cool.

slightlyignorant:

Awesome pull-out bookshelves

Cool.

Pablo Neruda's Saddest Poem

naguib:

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars, and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights…

themarysue:

One never needs a reason to reblog Leonard Nimoy singing The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins.

This is true.

That sometime human beings have to just sit in once place and, like, hurt. That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do. That there is a such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness … That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be. That God - unless you’re Charlton Heston, or unhinged, or both - speaks and acts entirely through the vehicle of human beings, if there is a God. That God might regard the issue of whether you believe there’s a God or not as fairly low on his/her/its list of things s/he/it’s interested in re you.
David Foster Wallace; Infinite Jest
scrisori-de-sertar:

Cathy Lynn Brown

Time to write.
A place to hang out!

A place to hang out!

What a sublime art painting is!” my soul was thinking. “Happy is the man moved by the spectacle of nature who is not obliged to make paintings for a living; who does not paint solely as a pastime, but rather, when struck by the majesty of a beautiful countenance or the wonderful play of the light as it blends into a thousand shades on the human face, strives in his works to approximate nature’s sublime effects! And happier still the painter who, summoned to his solitary promenades by his love for the landscape, can express on canvas the sadness inspired in him by a shaded thicket or an empty plain. His creations imitate and reproduce nature; he invents new seas and dark caverns the sun has never known: at his command, shady groves, always green, arise from nothing; heaven’s blue is mirrored in his paintings. With his art he can roil the winds and make the tempests roar. At other times he presents to the spectator’s astonished eye the splendid landscapes of ancient Sicily: one sees frightened nymphs fleeing through the reeds, pursued by a satyr; temples of majestic architecture rise proudly above the sacred forest surrounding them: the imagination loses its way along the silent paths of this ideal land; the bluish distance blends into the sky, and the whole landscape, mirrored in the waters of a tranquil river, creates a spectacle that no language can describe.
Xavier de Maistre, from Voyage Around My Room (1794) translated by Stephen Sartarelli (via 1910-again)
I think somehow the culture has taught us or we’ve allowed the culture to teach us that the point of living is to get as much as you can and experience as much pleasure as you can, and that the implicit promise is that will make you happy. I know that’s almost offensively simplistic, but the effects of it aren’t simplistic at all.
David Foster Wallace