Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not
love breathing. (Harper Lee) I nearly always write, just as I nearly
always breathe. (John Steinbeck) When I don’t write, I feel my world
shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my
color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call
it breathing. (Anaïs Nin) With my eyes closed, I would touch a
familiar book and draw its fragrance deep inside me. This was enough
to make me happy. (Haruki Murakami) I stepped into the bookshop and
breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had
ever thought of bottling. (Carlos Ruiz Zafón) He loved a book because
it was a book; he loved its odor, its form, its title. What he loved
in a manuscript was its old illegible date, the bizarre and strange
Gothic characters, the heavy gilding which loaded its drawings. It was
its pages covered with dust — dust of which he breathed the sweet
and tender perfume with delight. (Gustave Flaubert) I whispered the
thrilling words to myself, then lifted the book to my nose and
breathed the ink from its pages. The scent of possibilities. (Kate
Morton) This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So
start breathing. (Azar Nafisi) My Other Tumblrs:
mustanggina.tumblr.com diaryofadocent.tumblr.com
ifyougiveachildabook.tumblr.com Contributor: womenreading.tumblr.com
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