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Heather, book nerd, come read with me 馃摎I can't reply to comments but I can send you a message if you leave one, or my ask box is always open. Redbubble store: www.redbubble.com/people/wedge-of-words/
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Fun Fact
Furby, that creepy 1990's doll, has a tumblr page.
wedge-of-words30 minutes ago
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She turned her face up to him, pale under the wisps and patches of light that trailed in like moonshine through a foliage. Her eyes were gleaming ripples in the white lake of her face; the shadows of her hair bordered the brow with a persuasive unintimate dusk. No love was there, surely; nor the imprint of any love. Her beauty was cool as this damp breeze, as the moist softness of her own lips.
F. Scott Fitzgerald,聽The Beautiful and Damned
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wedge-of-wordsa day ago
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I鈥檓 wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it.
Emily Bront毛, Wuthering Heights
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wedge-of-words2 days ago
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It was an uncertain spring. The weather, perpetually changing, sent clouds of blue and of purple flying over the land. In the country farmers, looking at the fields, were apprehensive; in London umbrellas were opened and then shut by people looking up at the sky. But in April such weather was to be expected.
Virginia Woolf, The Years (via wedge-of-words)
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wedge-of-words2 days ago
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Hyacinth and daffodil bloomed in the flower beds, violet and periwinkle in the meadows; damp, bedraggled white butterflies fluttered drunkenly in the hedgerows. I put away my winter coat and overshoes and walked around, nearly light-headed with joy, in the my shirtsleeves.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
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wedge-of-words4 days ago
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I have not broken your heart鈥攜ou have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.
Emily Bront毛, Wuthering Heights
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wedge-of-words4 days ago
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It鈥檚 the turn of the book. It needs a great shove to swing it round on its hinges.
Virginia Woolf, diary entry from Thursday, April 6th 1933 (via wedge-of-words)
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wedge-of-words5 days ago
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鈥淵ou expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.鈥
鈥 Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
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wedge-of-words6 days ago
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The grass was very green; the leaves were beginning to shoot; little green claws, like birds' claws, were pushing out from the branches; there was a sparkle, an animation everywhere; the air smelt clean and brisk.
- Virginia Woolf, The Years
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wedge-of-words6 days ago
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O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away!
William Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona
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wedge-of-words7 days ago
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April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land
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wedge-of-words8 days ago
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It was a fine night early in April. A myriad stars mingling with the light of a sickle moon, which again was enforced by the street lamps, made a light infinitely becoming to the human countenance
Virginia Woolf, Orlando (via wedge-of-words)
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wedge-of-words9 days ago
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In the first week of April the weather turned suddenly unseasonably, insistently lovely. The sky was blue, the air warm and windless, and the sun beamed on the muddy ground with all the sweet impatience of June. Toward the fringe of the wood, the young trees were yellow with the first tinge of new leaves; woodpeckers laughed and drummed in the copses and, lying in bed with my window open, I could hear the rush and gurgle of the melted snow running in the gutters all night long.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
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wedge-of-words13 days ago
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On this day (28 March) in 1941, Virginia Woolf filled the pockets of her overcoat with rocks and walked into the River Ouse near her home. She left this suicide/love letter for her husband Leonard. Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can鈥檛 go through another of those terrible times. And I shan鈥檛 recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can鈥檛 concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don鈥檛 think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can鈥檛 fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can鈥檛 even write this properly. I can鈥檛 read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that 鈥 everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can鈥檛 go on spoiling your life any longer. I don鈥檛 think two people could have been happier than we have been.
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wedge-of-words13 days ago
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An element in life - even in mine that was so remote - taken away. That is what one minds
Virginia Woolf, diary entry from Saturday, March 28th 1931 (on the death of Arnold Bennett)
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wedge-of-words14 days ago
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Is the time coming when I can endure to read my own writing in print without blushing - shivering and wishing to take cover?
Virginia Woolf, diary entry from Thursday, March 27th 1919
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wedge-of-words14 days ago
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wedge-of-words15 days ago
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鈥淚nstinct is a marvellous thing,鈥 mused Poirot. 鈥淚t can neither be explained nor ignored.鈥
Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles
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