Read much, surfing less, traveling more, traveling is the only thing which gives us a real experience of the beauty of different cultures of the world.and gives us the sense to understand different peoples societies and their values Don't let social sites control your life, but keep everything under your control especially social sites. This is a real fake world which exists in our real world
As soon as I saw the bookshelves through the store windows, I felt lighter. Just thinking about the smell inside. Paper, compressed nature, and hands making words, a must of knowing and magic. Periods. Commas. Digressions. Analogies. The beauty of everyday thought turned poetry. It was all there, and I was hit with a little sliver of peace in the chaos of my brain.
For the past two years, I had coasted along these waters and each year ended the same. With me returning alone.
A book half read was a bother. Like a toothache. It niggled.
Iβve been thinking of a poet who is dying in New York, how these days she reads her beloved Dante, perhaps looking for something to frame what is happening to her. And whom, I wonder, do I turn to? Whom in this century do I read as if my life depended upon it?
Itβs terrible, β¦ for us to have been so scared to be seen with books we have every right to read.
pregnant belly of sunlight, bouncing over an open book
Just now I'm not so grateful to be living. My ears and eyes are buried in my book, Because I dare not look, I dare not look.
We were very much a reading family, but we were a borrow-a-book-from-the-library family more than a bookshelves-full-of-books family. My parents valued books, but the grew up in the Depression, aware of the quicksilver nature of money, and they learned the hard way that you shouldn't buy what you could borrow. Because of that frugality, or perhaps independent of it, they also believed that you read a book for the experience of reading it.
We were very much a reading family, but we were a borrow-a-book-from-the-library family more than a bookshelves-full-of-books family. My parents valued books, but they grew up in the Depression, aware of the quicksilver nature of money, and they learned the hard way that you shouldn't buy what you could borrow. Because of that frugality, or perhaps independent of it, they also believed that you read a book for the experience of reading it.
Books don't have bulbs in them, But the light they give out, brightens up even the darkest souls!
Reading a novel, he supposes, is like playing a game where all the choices have been made for you ahead of time by someone who is much better at this particular game. (Though he sometimes wishes choose-your-own-adventure novels would come back into fashion.)
Just as Iβm all the ages I have been, Iβm all the readers I have been.
Every book is a different hood, a different country, a different world. Reading is how I visit places and people and ideas. And when something rings true or if I still have a question, I outline it with a bright yellow highlighter so that itβs lit up in my mind, like a lightbulb or a torch leading the way to somewhere new.
Reading is perhaps the greatest pleasure you will have in life; the one you will think of longest, and repent of least.
But he spends so much time in front of screens he has a near-compulsive need to let his eyeballs rest on paper.
Sherman Alexie: Reading centers on finding yourself in a book.
Some people see a bookshop as an archive, or a shrine, or even a time machine. But I think a bookshop is like a map of the world. There are infinite paths you can take through it and none of them are right or wrong. Here in a bookshop we give readers landmarks to help them find their way, but every reader has to learn to set their own compass.
In the absence of real society, I made my own out of the imagined people Peter Flynt slid into my locker. They entered like corpses on a slab, but they came to life in my mind with each turn of the page.
I have always found that making allowances for a liberal amount of fiction in oneβs life is necessary to maintaining equanimity. How else does one escape, even for a short time, from the drudgery that everyday life affords?
