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(Source: weheartit.com, via relatableblog)
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when I see someone I half love and hate. <3
(Source: thenewbourgeoisie, via the-absolute-best-posts)
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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)
(Source: breathingbooks, via booklover)
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(Source: blueprintmodern, via booklover)
(via booklover)
