“You know that feeling, when you are reading a book…. and you are tied to the story?”
(Source: booksandhotchocolate, via readbymoonlight)
Mother with Child.
[One more marvelous Nikki McClure illustration for the forthcoming novel SINFUL FOLK]
They were watching, out there past men’s knowing, where stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea. — Cormac McCarthy | Blood Meridian (via evoketheforms)
Tumblr on @weheartit.com - http://whrt.it/Xpv6BS
(Source: story-i-have-never-told, via alittlebookdust)
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from it; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things. —
T. S. Eliot (via bdgarp)
Thoughts on poetry from T.S. Eliot
I lift my eyes to the distant moon that shines over our earthly sphere. I stare around at the field in front of me, the seven-branched candlelabraum etched over the archway, the dark gray stones ranked together in rows, the brambles that have overgrown this secret shadowed place.
This is the closest I will ever come to finding my people.
It is the last graveyard of my people in London.
— from the novel Sinful Folk
Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. It’s like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward trying– only to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers. — F. Scott Fitzgerald (via libraryland)
Very funny — from yeahwriters:
Happy Walpurgis Night, everyone!
(the traditional night of the witches is April 30 / May 1)
The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. — Oscar Wilde (via milotica)
(Source: coello, via the-masked-writer)
When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty, I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up. — C. S. Lewis (via whiterabbitbook)
Argentina sunset. (I’m writing in Cordoba this year!)