(Source: wishfulsinfulwickedblue)
A 1930’s remington portable for Christmas. Speaking strictly of typing speed: my remy to a mac laptop is much like an old crone taking a late afternoon stroll to Park n’ Shop to get cotton earbuds to a lambourghini cruising its way along the French Riveria. I love it neverthless, it breathes Paris, it breathes the Jazz Age, it breathes Ol’ Fizt and Hemingway and it makes a beautifully rich clack when I press my finger down. Thank you remington for renewing my faith in good christmas gifts.
Farrar, Straus and Giroux: Franzen on ebooks and the future of reading
“The Great Gatsby was last updated in 1924. You don’t need it to be refreshed, do you?
“Maybe nobody will care about printed books 50 years from now, but I do. When I read a book, I’m handling a specific object in a specific time and place. The fact that when I take the book off the shelf it…
Haha, this is hilarious but spot-on. Nevertheless, despite the limited variety in theme, we do seem to forgive Murakami in the end.
(Source: paperbackgirl)
To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.
—Robert Frost (via bodasdesangre)
“A new Twitter policy which goes into effect today allows the social network “to reactively withhold content from users in a specific country,” so that Twitter can further expand globally and “enter countries that have different ideas about the contours of freedom of expression.
In essence, Twitter, once known as a catalyst and aid to the Arab Spring, now allows censorship by oppressive regimes. RIP tweets.
(via upolitic)
Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.
—Flannery O’Connor (via pavorst)
Don’t ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.” ~ Charles Bukowski
—I was considering embarking on a novel. But I wasn’t too sure if I was prepared to suffer from the heat of scorching excrement. Maybe some other time.
Listen to the first lines - Keats is a true genius.
