“At the end of the day, it’s just love, I guess. You fall in love with something and you’re impelled to make it better, willing to forgive it all kinds of faults and improve it inside your head.”
Reposted from http://ift.tt/1Qtj0NY.
This illustration is from The Stars by H. A. Rey (the Curious George author/artist). I have a beaten-up copy that is, in a certain sense, my oldest book. I own books that are older, but of all the books I own its the one that I’ve had the longest, with a distinct memory of reading this physical copy as a young child.
It’s the original cloth-bound hardback of the first edition, published in 1962, which makes it exactly as old as I am. I remember reading it (which would have meant looking at the pictures) when I lived on Hilton Drive in Redlands. We moved from that house just after my parents divorced, so I could not have been older than four, or at most five.
I loved it then, and love it now.
Reposted from http://lies.tumblr.com/post/65998342261.
james tissot, summer, 1878 (x)
I still need to read Patricia O’Reilly’s semi-fictionalized biography of Kathleen Newton. It arrived a few months ago; it’s sitting in the cubby of the bedside table at home, waiting for me to take a break from Tumblr and reading Jane Eyre via the Kindle app so I can read an actual book.
Books are patient that way. I like that about books.
Reposted from http://lies.tumblr.com/post/58162990514.
