Often she had seemed to herself to be moving among those vanished figures of old books and pictures, an invisible ghost among the living, better acquainted with them than with her own friends. She very nearly lost consciousness that she was a separate being, with a future of her own.

Virginia Woolf, Night And Day. (via fuckyeahvirginiawoolf)

He began to resent the time he had spent at work on the Foote farm. Having come to his studies late, he felt the urgency of study. Sometimes, immersed in his books, there would come to him the awareness of all that he did not know, of all that he had not read; and the serenity for which he labored was shattered as he realized the little time he had in life to read so much, to learn what he had to know.

John Williams, Stoner (via nickrecommends)

(via nyrbclassics)

I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.

Jean Rhys, Smile Please: An Unfinished Autobiography (via lydianea)