I’m good at loving books. I’m good at loving soft bed sheets. I’m good at loving coffees and teas. I am good at loving things that can’t love me back, that don’t have the power to leave. And maybe, that’s why I love them.
—B.C. (via venchy
Buying books is immensely comforting. Maybe I won’t read them immediately, but they make me feel so much better whenever I’m sad and blue. Just their presence, it’s like having more to look forward to.
—Unknown (via the-healing-nest
Your body is made of the same elements that lionesses are built from. Three quarters of you is the same kind of water that beats rocks to rubble, wears stones away. Your DNA translates into the same twenty amino acids that wolf genes code for. When you look in the mirror and feel weak, remember, the air you breathe in fuels forest fires capable of destroying everything they touch. On the days you feel ugly, remember: diamonds are only carbon. You are so much more.
Isn’t it odd how much fatter a book gets when you’ve read it several times? As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells, and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower, both strange and familiar.
—Cornelia Funke (via troubled
Matt, he’s really, he is a great guy. He’s incredibly mature. He loves people, he loves women, and he’s really comfortable with women irrespective of age. Our Head of Make-up, hair and make-up department, Babs, she’s in her 70s, and he flirts with her like she’s 16, 17.
—Alex Kingston (Florida Supercon 2012)
What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.
—Carl Sagan (via olanthanide
Pluto is interesting because it’s fixed on its moon, Charon, and they rotate around each other, constantly staring at each other affectionately, which is kind of a beautiful metaphor but I think that’s one of the reasons why it was demoted. Because I think now to be a proper planet you have to command the authority of others and because the moon and Pluto are sort of existentially attached as equals neither of them can be considered a planet. [Pauses] Sad, but true.
Sufjan Stevens on why Pluto had to be a dwarf
#For never was there a tale of more planetary woe / #Than this of moon Charon and her beloved Pluto.
Whovian Challenges | Challenge 003: Your Favourite Incarnation - The Eleventh Doctor
Matt Smith is like a young man built by old men from memory.
Themed Party | Challenge 45: Crossover Quotes » Irene Adler (Sherlock Holmes)
”The only water in the forest is the river.” River Song (Doctor Who 6.07: A Good Man Goes To War)
Because I’ve never been a 17 year old girl, it’s rather interesting to think like one, or rather to force yourself to consider the world from that perspective. And it actually started to make me angry. I’d never really thought about it before, but you know, when I’d consider the world from the viewpoint of this dynamic, highly intelligent, highly talented 17 year old girl, and think what’s going to happen to her, think about how much harder it’s going to be for her than it would be if she’d been a boy, it made me SO angry.
Steven Moffat on writing Lynda Day in Press Gang (via hellyeahpressgang)
#so tell me HOW a man who UNDERSTANDS male privilege can be a mysoginist
Because he is NOT a mysoginist, maybe?
Into this wild abyss,
The womb of nature and perhaps her grave,
Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,
But all of these in their pregnant causes mixed
Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,
Unless the almighty maker them ordain
His dark materials to create more worlds
Into his wild abyss the wary fiend
Stood on the brink of hell and looked a while,
Pondering his voyage….
—John Milton: Paradise Lost, Book II (via stanhopes
“My best guess is that he will indeed stand time’s test; and wind up on a shelf where only the best are kept; I think Harry will take his place with Alice, Huck, Frodo and Dorothy, and this is one series not just for the decade, but for the ages.” -Stephen King
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to Middle-Earth.
—George R.R. Martin (via jonquille