#literature

sometimes, i need to learn to unlearn everything about you. i really dont need to be walking around, looking at things only to be reminded that maybe once, you would have loved it but now, not even your ghost lingers around

“And that’s my problem, I know. But world has long since existed for me in only two colors. I didn’t knew when, but I became habitual to always choose gold for people and grey for my own soul.”

╰─➛✎ᝰmeto · · · ✦

In 1939, Viking Press first published John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, and it’s pretty good if you can get past the part about the goddamned turtle crossing the goddamned road.

writing poetry is truly a cathartic experience. it doesn’t have to be good, and you don’t have to allow anyone else to read it: just the outpouring of emotion is enough.

bsd-bibliophile:

“Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.”

—

Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov 

’The Lady of the Lake’ by Walter Scott (published in 1810)

’Secrets of the Stars’ by Inez N. McFee (published in 1922)

’The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde (published in 1890)

Title page of ’Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Brontë (Penguin Classics, 1978 edition)

‘Giovanni’s Room’ by James Baldwin (published in 1956)

’The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde (quoted from ‘Hamlet’)

“There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing poetry—
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll—
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul.”

“There is no Frigate like a Book,” The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson — ed. Thomas H. Johnson

zoanzon:

assiraphales:

assiraphales:

filmmakers and audiences and critics alike all need to start suspending their disbelief again

‘this doesn’t make sense’ so?????

important edition

teabooksandsweets:

The lane that led from Big Village to Little Village was an enchanting place at half-past five on an April morning. The thick high hedges of sloe and briar and hawthorn, blown all one way by the wind from the sea, so that the seaward hedges tossed long sprays of emerald green leaves like foam across the lane, were bright and sparkling with sunshot raindrops, and nestling in the shelter of them were celandines and speedwells that were still asleep. Through gaps in the hedge they could see the east still barred with gold, and the sky curving up through lovely gradations of colour that ended over their heads in a clear deep blue that was reflected on the earth below, by the pools in the lane and the polished surfaces of the wet green leaves, as though the depth of the firmament was something the earth must at all costs reach up and catch hold of. The light was the strange light of dawn, cool and bright yet deep and warm, the light of the sun and the moon and the stars mingling together for a moment as the dominion of the one yielded to the rule of the other.

There were numbers of birds already, little ones that sang praises madly in the hedges and big ones that moved in long lines against the golden east, flying from north to south in slow rhythmical ecstasy. Some of them were black and some were white. “Crows and gulls,” said Lucilla, “and they fly like that because they are so happy that the sun has risen. They can’t sing like the little birds and so they have to praise God with the movement of their wings.”

—The Bird in the Tree by Elizabeth Goudge