The Ornamented Being
Ornamented: -verb: Adorn; beautify. Be·ing: -noun: Fulfillment of possibilities; essential completeness.
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Photoset reblogged from braided life
Truth. When I am at an antique faire or an antique market and I see a pile of old books I have to force myself to put one foot in front of the other and slowly walk, not run, towards them. Even though my eyes are fixed on that stack of books like a drowning man staring at the shore, I ignore my fingers twitching at my side and approach steadily.
Once I reach the shop or stall I totally forget about trying to appear like a normal human. I take comfort in the fact that the owner won’t judge me if I sink to the dusty floor and give myself over to the draw of the books. They would never judge me if there are tears in my eyes when I find an old Tennyson.
There are old friends in each pile and there are new friends whispering hello! There are ageless treasures and there are ones that have been loved until the spine is thin.
I love literature. I love that I can be anywhere in any world in a matter of seconds. That nothing is impossible. Literature is a bridge to that part of our soul that longs for creative freedom and for those few precious moments I can let myself fly.
There is no other comparable reading experience than picking up an old, leather-bound book and opening the pages. The leather, the paper, even the ink has a scent that is absolutely unique.
Agreed.
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Photoset reblogged from Nerdy Glasses
Truth. When I am at an antique faire or an antique market and I see a pile of old books I have to force myself to put one foot in front of the other and slowly walk, not run, toward them. Even though my eyes are fixed on that stack of books like a drowning man staring at the shore, I ignore my fingers twitching at my side and approach steadily.
Once I reach the shop or stall I totally forget about trying to appear like a normal human. I take comfort in the fact that the owner won’t judge me if I sink to the dusty floor and give myself over to the draw of the books. They would never judge me if there are tears in my eyes when I find an old Tennyson.
There are old friends in each pile and there are new friends whispering hello! There are ageless treasures and there are ones that have been loved until the spine is thin.
I love literature. I love that I can be anywhere in any world in a matter of seconds. That nothing is impossible. Literature is a bridge to that part of our soul that longs for creative freedom and for those few precious moments I can let myself fly.
Look what made it back to my dashboard! This is one of my favorite things that I have written on Ornamented Being.
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” … Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so … damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.”
Every time I read this piece I cry. It’s as if every wall has been torn down and he is weary of the fight. On the edge with nothing left.
So he writes, because there is nothing left to do but write, and write and write until the pain fades or until he becomes so numb there is nothing left to feel. Until this damn muscle stops hurting with each beat.
I can hear the writer as if he were hovering behind me confiding in my ear. I feel his rage, the absolute longing in his soul. I can taste the bitterness of denial, the fatigued struggle to keep the anger. The acceptance in his voice, almost like fingers slipping, grasping at the ledge, a plea to keep holding on. That last quiet goodbye. And the utter defeat as he whispers “I hate you” echoes like a cry and he lets go.
(Source: thoughtcatalog.com)
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Truth. When I am at an antique faire or an antique market and I see a pile of old books I have to force myself to put one foot in front of the other and slowly walk, not run, toward them. Even though my eyes are fixed on that stack of books like a drowning man staring at the shore, I ignore my fingers twitching at my side and approach steadily.
Once I reach the shop or stall I totally forget about trying to appear like a normal human. I take comfort in the fact that the owner won’t judge me if I sink to the dusty floor and give myself over to the draw of the books. They would never judge me if there are tears in my eyes when I find an old Tennyson.
There are old friends in each pile and there are new friends whispering hello! There are ageless treasures and there are ones that have been loved until the spine is thin.
I love literature. I love that I can be anywhere in any world in a matter of seconds. That nothing is impossible. Literature is a bridge to that part of our soul that longs for creative freedom and for those few precious moments I can let myself fly.
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I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I have stared down at a page in disbelief and thought why is it that you understand me when no one else does?
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Albert Edelfelt (1854-1905): Good friends (Berta and Capi)
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Eleven years ago my fifth grade literature teacher told me that the only way to properly read a book is to open to the middle and smell the ink. You are about to embark upon an adventure that will change your life.
To this day I still open books that way.
Miss Auras, Sir John Lavery
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Libraries are the most beautiful places on Earth.
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Julius LeBlanc Stewart (1855-1919) Reading Aloud Oil
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” … Date him because guys who read know that the biggest joys in life are sharing with others, while he believes communication begins and ends with a delineation of your duties. Don’t date a guy who reads, because men who read know that chivalry doesn’t have an expiration date, and know that what you have isn’t nearly as important as who you have. Don’t date a guy who reads because they are never satisfied with the status quo, will only look to learn more, and to teach you things that make your heart soar. Don’t date a guy who reads because then you won’t have to worry about him asking questions, and you can feel fulfilled with your own life, separate from his, rather than knowing that love between two people is greater than the sum of its parts, that a great story is so much more than the words on the page.”
- Jason Pinter
The artwork is entitled: The Poetry Reading, Vittorio Reggianini
