geranium kisser.

(melissamariemohr)
mmm tawks

mmm tawks

hallelu:

Literary bedrooms…

1. Victor Hugo : Dark, rich and red - Hugo’s bedroom at his home on the Place de Vosges in Paris is all that you would expect from a writer heavily influenced by the Romanticism movement.

2. Ernest Hemingway: Light floods the Nobel Prize-winning author’s bedroom at his Key West home.

3. Flannery O’Connor: The author did most of her writing at the desk in her bedroom. The aluminum crutches were used to help her get around her parents’ dairy farm.

4. Sylvia Plath: The Pulitzer Prize-winning author stayed for several months at the Barbizon Hotel for Women. This image is taken from an advertisement for the hotel and suggests what Plath’s room may have looked like at that time.

5. Henry David Thoreau: Intent on simple living, Thoreau furnished his 10’x15’ home with only the necessary basics - a bed, a table, a desk, and three chairs.

6. Virginia Woolf : Full of details — the bookshelves house the author’s artful collection of books, many of which she recovered with colored paper.

7. Emily Dickinson: Most of the poet’s writing was done at a small writing table in her bedroom.

8. Marcel Proust: A victim of asthma and severe allergies, Proust’s bedroom was a masterwork in shelter and seclusion. All apertures were shielded or sealed, and the walls and ceiling were covered in cork to protect the author from the dust and noise of the outside world.

9. William Faulkner: More of an office with a bed — the Nobel prize-winning author outlined the plot of The Fable on the walls of the room and then shellacked his notes to preserve them.

10. Truman Capote: The author’s bedroom at his Hamptons beach house is simple, but elegant.

More here.

(Source: vintageanchorbooks)

“I do not call you unfortunate,” said the Large Voice.
“Don’t you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?” said Shasta.
“There was only one lion,” said the Voice.
“What on earth do you mean? I’ve just told you there were at least two the first night, and-“
“There was only one: but he was swift of foot.”
“How do you know?”
“I was the lion.” And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. “I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”
“Then it was you who wounded Aravis?”
“It was I”
“But what for?”
“Child,” said the Voice, “I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
“Who are you?” asked Shasta.
“Myself,” said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again “Myself”, loud and clear and gay: and then the third time “Myself”, whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all round you as if the leaves rustled with it.

—C.S. Lewis. The Horse and His Boy, Chapter 11

Love’s as hard as nails.
Love is nails:
blunt, thick, hammered through
the medial nerves of One
who, having made us, knew
the thing that He had done:
seeing (with all that is)
our cross, and His.

—C.S. Lewis (via home-cosmography)

(Source: abigailfreer)