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And this, boys and girls, is why we shouldn’t underestimate children’s literature.
(Source: foxxypants, via stardogchampoion)
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(Source: herwrittings)
This is my blog’s definitive photo.
(via theloneluftmensch)
I don’t believe in the kind of magic in my books. But I do believe that something very magical can happen when you read a good book.
Currently Reading: Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie
She’d never really liked the book. It seemed to her that it tried to tell her what to do and what to think. Don’t stray from the path, don’t open that door, but hate the wicked witch because she is wicked. Oh, and believe that shoe size is a good way of choosing a wife. A lot of the stories were highly suspicious, in her opinion. There was the one that ended when the two good children pushed the wicked witch into her own oven… Stories like this stopped people thinking properly, she was sure. She’d read that one and thought, Excuse me? No one has an oven big enough to get a whole person in, and what made the children think they could just walk around eating people’s houses in any case? And why does some boy too stupid to know a cow is worth a lot more than five beans have the right to murder a giant and steal all his gold? Not to mention commit an act of ecological vandalism? And some girl who can’t tell the difference between a wolf and her grandmother must either have been as dense as teak or come from an extremely ugly family.
Draw Large and Startling Figures: You Begin
You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.
Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.
This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
- Margaret Atwood
Meg raised her head, and moonlight shone on her tearstained face; without the glasses her eyes were unexpectedly beautiful.
“If Charles Wallace is a sport, I think I’m a biological mistake.”
Moonlight flashed against her braces as she spoke. Now she was waiting to be contradicted.
But Calvin said, “Do you know that this is the first time I’ve seen you without your glasses?”
“I’m blind as a bat without them. I’m near-sighted like Father.”
“Well, you know what, you’ve for dream-boat eyes,” Calvin said. “Listen, you go right on wearing your glasses. I don’t think I want anybody else to see what gorgeous eyes you have.
We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more somber every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.
Literature. Writing. Films. TV. Craft. Design. Fashion. Travel. Adventure. Life.
