Horribly Bookish

For the endlessly inspiring written word and appreciation of all things bookish

nestofstraightlines:

Autumn at Waterstones!

Our advice is climbing into a book and just staying there until the sun comes back. If you have a house made of books, all the better.

(via physicsisphantastic)

seriesandseasons:

“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.”
- Charles William Eliot

seriesandseasons:

“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.”

- Charles William Eliot

(via bookporn)

God damn it, there are nice things in the world- and I mean nice things. We’re all such morons to get so sidetracked.

—J.D. Salinger, Franny & Zooey  (via illumiaow)

(Source: larmoyante, via weisstonedimmaculate)

F. Scott Fitzgerald / John Keats

—Ode to a Nightingale

thelittlebigbookproject:

elemes:

F. Scott Fitzgerald reads an edited and abridged version of “Ode to a Nightingale” circa 1940.





"Ode to a Nightingale" (1819) - John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
  But being too happy in thine happiness,
    That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
          In some melodious plot
  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
  Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
  Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
          And purple-stainèd mouth;
  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
  What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
          And leaden-eyed despairs;
  Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
    Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

[…]

The first time I have ever experienced my favourite author’s voice. I will never ever relive this moment

(Source: sc.edu, via weisstonedimmaculate)

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