The Miracle Of Not Having To Talk About Oneself
theme by nee-d; detail applapacia.
“I am obsessed with becoming a woman comfortable in her skin.”
~ Sandra Cisneros (via gardeniatree)

“What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness.”
~ Leo Tolstoy (via wordsthat-speak)


This is literally what Terry Pratchett wears to conventions. 

“So you have failed? You cannot fail. You have not failed; you have gained experience. Forward!”
~ St. Josemaría Escrivá (via jared-michael-thomas)



Kill the idea that naivety is an unforgivable flaw but cynicism is just wisdom, murder it, chop it up and serve it for dinner, I don’t care, just end this bullshit idea that it’s better to hate than to love and better to rot in miserable bitter resignation than to hope for the best.


I like Hemingway, but I also strongly suspect Hemingway would get very mad if I went back in time and told him the things I enjoy about his writing, because I mostly just enjoy how transparent all his insecurities are.

Okay seriously though, a solid third of the reason A Moveable Feast is tolerable is because old Hemingway is clearly trying SO HARD to portray baby Hemingway as this like Totally Serious Writer with Principles who Loved His Wife and was a Good Friend and was definitely not an alcoholic adulterer with a gambling problem and PTSD or anything like that and it’s just like…okay, Ernie, whatever you say.

(If you’re wondering, the other reasons it’s tolerable are PARIS IN THE TWENTIES SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY GERTRUDE STEIN BEING BITCHY AHHH and the scene where Hemingway reassures Fitzgerald that his dick is normal-sized and then they go look at all the dicks on the Louvre and it’s totally no homo)

The world is quiet here. A mix for the three unluckiest orphans in the history of literature, and for all the sinister situations in which they find themselves. [listen]



This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

File under: Why I Love Independent Book Stores. 

I never even knew a world was waiting
Somehow something awful made that world appear
Maybe this sounds crazy but I’m happy that it happened
Happy that I came
Happy that I’m here

“I have a big thing about endings. I don’t know what it is, but I really think endings just make or break a poem for me. When I see a good ending I die with envy. (Chop off the reader’s head! Stab us in the neck! Make us ring and ring!) Also, have a big thing for finding the right balance. I love it when a poem is working on many levels, when it’s got that exciting music and sound work (oh rhymes!), but also has that great plain language that gives it the guts, the ‘I am a real human being writing this, not a robot’ part, and then finally, I like a poem with a lot of capital H (Heart). I’m a fan of the ‘big ticket’ stuff; I like a poem that’s not scared to raise the stakes while also making sure it’s not too manipulative in how it uses its emotional currency. I ask a lot of my own work and fail a great deal, but I’m always trying to get it right. I’m always trying to balance that egg upright at the end of the table so it’s sturdy enough that I can slam the door shut without it shattering.”
~ Ada Limón, interviewed by Suzannah Windsor for Compose Journal