I am very interested and fascinated how everyone loves each other, but no one really likes each other.
Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower (via itsfromabook)
Books are the perfect entertainment: no commercials, no batteries, hours of enjoyment for each dollar spent. What I wonder is why everybody doesn’t carry a book around for those inevitable dead spots in life
Stephen King

(Source: inspiredbylit)

towering above our heads
beams and glass

stretch     m i l e s   u p    to the firmament
sheafs of metal and stone
a proud monument to the humanity
obidiently moulded in the

d

e

p

t

h

of ignescent jaws of a foundry.

Submitted by ink-phantoms


danielleden:

The 20 Most Beautiful Bookstores in the World. If only I could visit them all. :)

(Source: crossroadwonders)

On Memory

An original composition. 

Let it all out. Enter the sweet, never-quite-true world of memory, where everything runs through the filters of music and color and nostalgia, passes through the Gateless Gate beyond which even the most ignoble sufferings seem to have the same magic of the past. The present slips through you and becomes film photographs, remembered melodies, great friendships and beaming smiles, and before you know it your whole life is behind you. Take in the mysticism of bravery, of sex and dreams and demeanor, of French girls in photographs and of sweet love made for the first time, of the simple ineffability of every single experience, which only seem comprehensible and meaningful when you revisit them by wandering through the black attics of memory, where they pulse like luminescent butterflies, alive with the glories of play and the wistful teardrops of all that we have done, because all we have done has brought us to what we are doing right now. Who could or would be free from the magic of a bike ride down a long trail, of a walk taken with a stoned friend, of all the enchantments and disenchantments of high school, which bind and release as often as the sun rises and sets? My remembered life is not a progression of moments but a pastiche and a panoply, a Picasso mural full of all the things I succeeded in and all the things I didn’t, full of snapshots and snatches of conversation and the spiderweb of moments that influenced and tugged on each other across the shuffled card deck of time, all of it bringing about the sad smile which only ever comes from reflection. Our brains and our souls do this, send us spiraling into the past, revealing the pattern that emerges when the waves of time have eroded the moments in between defining flashes of light that seize what was temporal and turn it, like the transduction of energy brings the world into ourselves, into the eternal humility of a snapshot. Tenderness saturates your being like a conciliatory quicksand around the legs, and looking back on the scatter of what I’ve managed to snag from the river of time and store with me in little albums and mobiles and dreamcatchers, I embrace even my enemies, wish somehow I could move beyond the faded stillness of what is after all a memory, a symbol of something which during its own time bloomed with incredible flowering motion. The mind is like an aviary full of yellow canaries and sailors that spend all night playing patience whittling and drinking from old green bottles, and by the time we realize this the canaries are already fleeing or else holing up for the night, done with their singing, so seize it all now before it fades, regardless of how many ancient globes spin in your memory and entrance you with hypnotic numerologies that you could not see when they spun before you the first time; once it has passed it is subject to the many predators of the unconscious, who bend and twist and sprinkle fairy dust on what happened before, and the jungles of memory become a place to see that each of your friends was a steeple before which to kneel and pray, a bundle of sizzling nerve fibers more precious than a bowl of diamonds, that every love no matter how impure was still an intimation of the great Maternal Soul who presides over all such matters, that each tragedy was a lesson imparting volumes and volumes of wisdom through the simply stark meaningless fact of its happening, that each leaf and piece of mulch and ignorant comment is integral to life, that it all happens because … so use this knowledge, this late-night grasping for the lost & hinted worlds of your memory, where dreamtigers stalk, footprints leaving Arabic sentences in the mud, and where ghosts dance with living folk in the ballrooms of Regret and Remembrance, use this knowledge to throw yourself forward, into the immense shining value of everything and anything that will ever grace your being with its simplicity or complexity: doing this, become the river. 

Submitted by vast-flowing-vigor
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That’s the thing about books. They let you travel without moving your feet.
Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake

(Source: Inspiredbylit)

To my followers…

Hello guys! Sorry I have neglected my blog this summer. School and working full time is taking up all of my free time… Not to mention homework, ect.. But I have found some time to read some awesome books. I haven’t put a dent in either of them, but what I have read thus far is pretty awesome (they are listed below).
In the meantime I would like to know what you guys are reading this summer! Also do not forget to share your creative writing and favorite quotes. That is what Inspired by Lit is all about!!

11/22/63 by Stephen King
Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern
The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri

(Source: Inspiredbylit)

"There is a difference between being put out and being put outdoors. If you are put out, you go somewhere else; if you are outdoors, there is no place to go. The distinction was subtle but final. Outdoors was the end of something, an irrevocable, physical fact, defining and complementing our metaphysical condition. Being a minority in both caste and class, we moved about anyway on the hem of life, struggling to consolidate our weaknesses and hang on, or to creep singly up into the major folds of the garment. our peripheral existence however, was something we had learned to deal with- probably because it was abstract. But the concreteness of being outdoors was another matter- like the difference between the concept of death and being, in fact, dead. Dead doesn’t change, and outdoors is here to stay.”

Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye

(Source: inspiredbylit)