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#now reading
asikana month ago
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馃挀Sevdi臒in ana yemek gibidir馃挀
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Onunla hayata doyars谋n
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Gerisi 莽erezdir,sadece hayat谋na onlarla devam edersin.
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De臒i艧mez ka莽 defa okursan oku A艦KIN kitab谋n谋.
DESTANDA yazsa kitab谋n sonu unutamazs谋n onu.
O son noktad谋r(馃挒.馃挒)
C眉mlenin sonu. Asikan
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listentothestories4 months ago
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There are stories that may be told aloud, and stories that must be told in whispers, and there are stories that are never told at all.
Diane Setterfield, Once Upon a River
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monsieur-r3 months ago
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Currently reading.
It's the first time I own a book with illustrations.
Original title: Neil Gaiman, The graveyard book.
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acadevmia7 months ago
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There was a grand piano, too, and Charles was playing, a glass of whiskey on the seat beside him. He was a little drunk; the Chopin was slurred and fluid, the notes melting sleepily into one another. A breeze stirred the heavy, moth-eaten velvet curtains, ruffling his hair.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History.
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starminesistera month ago
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Started (and finished) this morning: Smashed by Junji Ito
The best panel in this book: A cat farting disdainfully at this nasty child
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victoriajoan5 months ago
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鈥淲ords are small shapes in the gorgeous chaos of the world. But they are shapes, they bring the world into focus, they corral ideas, they hone thoughts, they paint watercolors of perception.鈥
Diane Ackerman, from A Natural History of the Senses
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ross-nekochan9 days ago
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Potrei vivere completamente felice, se non fossi un pazzo.
Go毛the - I Dolori del Giovane Werther
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kryptored5 months ago
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Death's brother is the name that poets give to sleep. For most men those dark hours are a reminder of the stillness that waits at the end of days.
Madeline Miller, Circe
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listentothestories3 months ago
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Do not fall into the trap of having to narrowly define yourself. You are not a brand, an image, or a product. You are an ever-expanding self, a Created You, which is infinite in its iterations.
Leeana Tankersley, Brazen
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monsieur-r3 months ago
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Tired little boy. 馃惥馃摉
Currently reading: Neil Gaiman, The graveyard book.
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acadevmia7 months ago
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Startled, I turned to see Henry sitting at the other end of the porch. He was without a jacket but otherwise immaculate for such an ungodly hour: trousers knife-pressed, his white shirt crisp with starch. On the table in front of him were books and papers, a steaming espresso pot and a tiny cup, and 鈥 I was surprised to see 鈥 an unfiltered cigarette burning in an ashtray.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History.
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kryptoreads5 days ago
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He was a being formed in the 鈥渧ery poetry of nature.鈥 His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened but the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the聽worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind.
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus, the original 1818 text (ed. D.L. Macdonald and Kathleen Scherf).
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