I want to go on a reading retreat. somewhere by a lake or a beach with a small, homey cottage with the most comfortable couches, daybeds and hammocks. No internet, TV or phones. In fall-weather, not too warm and not freezing cold. Unlimited stock of coffee and tea.
A week. Just one week. Alone, with a wide range of books to read.
No work, duties or errands to worry about.
No reports and analysis or plans to submit the following day.
Maybe with a bit of rain for a day or two.
Oh, wouldn’t that be grand! Just me and characters from all walks of life, different nationalities from different places in time with different cultures and preferences.
Just one day.
My son just saw my book of Life of Pi, realized it’s the movie trailer he was seeing on TV, decided to atart reading it.
Of he gets through this book (which i couldn’t finish!) I’m kicking myself for being such an embarrassment.
My son is 8, by the way and he usually just reads The Diary of A Whimpy Kid.
I hate when you read a book that’s so good, yet so devastating. I hate those stupid cliffhanger endings that have you gaping in shock and you have to read and re-read and re-read because you can’t believe the writer wrote that. I hate how the stupid book lingers behind long after you’ve closed it and it’s all you can think about and you feel disturbed by how emotional you are over it.
I hate it, but i absolutely love it.
This is why I think reading books should be done while you’re on vacation so you don’t suddenly lose your grip or place in the real world.
If my husband were anywhere close to this, I’d probably be the one begging him to read bedtime stories
Benedict Cumberbatch reading a fairtytale (by romangirl88)
Benedict Cumberbatch reading Ode to A Nightingale by John Keats
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, —
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain —
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep?
Sometimes I wish nights are longer because that’s when we get to have peace and quiet…
Now I’ll be up half the night finishing it, because I simply do not know how to pace myself when it comes to reading. I literally want to read a million books. Books and music are the only way to take my mind off of things.