1. Reblogged from: langleav
  2. nevver:

    Astronomy Photographer of the Year winners

    Reblogged from: nevver
  3. How quick and rushing life can sometimes seem, when at the same time it’s so slow and sweet and everlasting.
    Graham Swift, Tomorrow (via observando)
    Reblogged from: leftadesertforawasteland
  4. Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
    Just keep going. No feeling is final.
    Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours  (via loveage-moondream)
    Reblogged from: leftadesertforawasteland
  5. booksandtheirstories:

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

    booksandtheirstories:

    The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

    Reblogged from: library-heaven
  6. People don’t listen, they just wait for their turn to talk.
    Chuck Palahniuk (via thiskidmatt)
    Reblogged from: wordpainting
  7. When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.
    Jorge Luis Borges (via observando)
    Reblogged from: aliteraryescape
  8. Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.
    Maya Angelou (via wordsthat-speak)
    Reblogged from: wordsthat-speak
  9. She had waited all her life for something, and it had killed her when it found her.
    Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (via theclassicreader)
    Reblogged from: curation-spiration
  10. Man is the measure of all things.
    Protagoras (via larmoyante)
    Reblogged from: larmoyante
  11. Reblogged from: bookishleaves
  12. Sunflowers - Vincent Van Gogh, Claude Monet, Gustave Klimt & Gustave Caillebotte

    Reblogged from: myownliteraryself
  13. I suppose my depression is a form of vanity.
    Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry (via violentwavesofemotion)
    Reblogged from: diamonds-on-the-bay
  14. Every person has their own color. Did you know that?” he said. “No, I didn’t.” “Each individual has their own unique color, which shines faintly around the contours of their body. Like a halo. Or a backlight. I’m able to see those colors clearly.
    Reblogged from: murakamistuff
  15. One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. There is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss. That is what lies at the root of true harmony.
    Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (via larmoyante)
    Reblogged from: larmoyante
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The Golden Child

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