starmaps:

careers to consider when I finish uni:

  • girl in 1960s Paris with winged eyeliner and a fringe who sits in cafes and bars and drinks sherry
  • WWII war nurse
  • muse for a late 19th century artist
  • archaeologist in the 30s
  • suffragette
  • background character in a Wodehouse story
  • incorporeal sense of vague dissatisfaction
Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.
Donald Miller (via writingquotes)
lisasimpsonbookclub:

Philip Roth in a nutshell.
Submitted by Spencer Davis

lisasimpsonbookclub:

Philip Roth in a nutshell.

Submitted by Spencer Davis

lisasimpsonbookclub:

Don’t be glum, Lisa! Why not re-read one of your favorite books?

lisasimpsonbookclub:

Don’t be glum, Lisa! Why not re-read one of your favorite books?

lisasimpsonbookclub:

geekyjessica:

Lisa Simpson has been my hero since 1990

This is, and forever will be, the matter.

All day errday.

lastnightsreading:

Julie Otsuka at the Brooklyn Book Festival, 9/21/14

I’m in good shape, then.

lastnightsreading:

Julie Otsuka at the Brooklyn Book Festival, 9/21/14

I’m in good shape, then.

lastnightsreading:

Rivka Galchen at the Brooklyn Book Festival, 9/21/14

lastnightsreading:

Rivka Galchen at the Brooklyn Book Festival, 9/21/14

the-final-sentence:

Final sentences:

African hut or whatever, I hope Holly has, too.

from Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Then starting home, he walked toward the trees, and under them, leaving behind him the big sky, the whisper of wind voices in the wind-bent wheat.

from In Cold Blood 

Here is what I had written him: Hello pop hope you are well I am and I am lurning to pedal my plain so fast I will soon be in the sky so keep your eyes open and yes I love you Buddy.

from One Christmas

She beckoned to him, shining and silver, and he knew he must go: unafraid, not hesitating, he paused only at the garden’s edge where, as though he’d forgotten something, he stopped and looked back at the bloomless, descending blue, at the boy he had left behind.

from Other Voices, Other Rooms

We watched until he turned a bend at the corner, innocent of the menace he carried, the chrysanthemums that burned, that growled and roared against a greenly lowering dusk.

from The Thanksgiving Visitor

Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger,
Only to someone who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket
To protect you.
Hafez (via tout-baigne)