My copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer/Philosopher’s Stone.
In such bad condition because it belonged to my older brother before me.
A cheap Scholastic paperback. Our parents bought us this when we first moved to America and were still pretty poor. Getting any book was a huge deal, and I read this every year from the age of six.
I will always irrevocably connect Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone with my grandma, who was the first to read them but died having only got to the fourth book, a reading love to share with my sister (sending her the UK copies because she couldn’t bear to have the US ones) and my dad reading it to comfort himself in hospital after crashing his motorbike on the way to his mother’s, my nana’s, funeral. Inextricably linked.
"Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling the curtain; the flowers in the jar shift. One fibre in the wicker arm-chair creaks, though no one sits there."
Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room (via r-hoda)
"Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there."