RIP Richard Griffiths, a tremendous actor.
In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?
|—||Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via foxesinbreeches)|
|—||Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via manycoloureddays)|
Let’s take a look at a few of my favs so far;
Sassy Waterstones worker, I love you,
And well this is true:
Sometimes I do worry about their psyche though:
They make up cool new words;
They’re a sassy little shit.
And best of all, the Holden debacle;
And one more for good luck:
|—||John Rogers (via barrier-trio)|
|—||Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides|
YOU OTHER READERS CAN’T DENY
WHEN A BOOK WALKS IN WITH A GOOD PLOT BASE
AND A BIG SPINE IN YOUR FACE YOU GET SPRUNG
WANNA PULL OUT YOUR PENS
‘CAUSE YOU NOTICED THAT BOOK WAS DENSE
READING, HALF-RIMS I’M WEARING
I’M HOOKED AND I AIN’T CARING
OH BABY I WANT AN E-READER
AND A MEANINGFUL METER
MY TEACHERS TRIED TO TRAIN ME
THAT BOOK YOU GOT MAKES ME SO BRAINY
OH MY GOD.
And then I died…
rapping this forever
BLESS THIS POST
But as I drove away and turned back in the car to take what promised to be my last view of the house, I felt that I was leaving part of myself behind, and that wherever I went afterwards I should feel the lack of it, and search for it hopelessly, as ghosts are said to do, frequenting the spots where they buried material treasures without which they cannot pay their way to the nether world.