When you’re young the thing you have to fake is control; when you’re old the thing you have to fake is energy.

By the time the rains came at the end of June, the foetus was fully formed inside her womb. Knees and nose were present; and as many heads as would grow were already in position. What had been (at the beginning) no bigger than a full stop had expanded into a comma, a word, a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter; now it was bursting into more complex developments, becoming, one might say, a book - perhaps an encyclopaedia - even a whole language.

“My best guess is that he will indeed stand time’s test; and wind up on a shelf where only the best are kept; I think Harry will take his place with Alice, Huck, Frodo and Dorothy, and this is one series not just for the decade, but for the ages.”  -Stephen King

(via miraze)

Today’s World Book Night! I’m a giver and my book is Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

My mum’s the manager of a military hotel that accommodates people waiting to be deployed or just housed so I’ve given her half of the books to hand out to her guests. A book is the perfect way to while away the hours after all!

Thanks you Terry, Neil and World Book Night for this wonderful gift to my community. 

If you can’t appreciate what you’ve got, you’d better get what you can appreciate.

Jimmy Chen’s “Literature Flowchart” (via)

(via how-novelistic)

She sleeps. And now she wakes each day a little less. And, each day, takes less and less nourishment, as if grudging the least moment of wakefulness, for, from the movement under her eyelids, and the somnolent gestures of her hands and feet, it seems as if her dreams grow more urgent and intense, as if the life she lives in the closed world of dreams is now about to possess her utterly, as if her small, increasingly reluctant wakenings were an interpretation of some more vital existence, so she is loath to spend even those necessary moments of wakefulness with us, wakings strange as her sleepings. Her marvellous fate - a sleep more lifelike than the living, a dream which consumes the world.

What is marriage but prostitution to one man instead of many?

She’s never where she is,” I said. “She’s only inside her head.

pollymiau:

Virginia Woolf’s bedroom

consistentcontradiction:

James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

sleepinginthesnow:

Bukowski

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W. I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this evening or never.