Best 7930 quotes in «reading quotes» category

Self learner; reading.

Semoga di 2017 jenis Php semakin bisa diidentifikasi, sehingga mblo mblo indonesia semakin waspada dan lebih berhati-hati

Self-publishing a shitty book doesn't make you an author any more than singing in the shower makes you a rockstar or squeezing your pimple makes you a dermatologist.

Semoga di 2017 orang2 semakin sadar bahwa penyiar berita lebih perhatian ngucapin "selamat pagi" ketimbang gebetan yg sering diculik UFO

Seriously?” Spartacus looked amazed. “I thought this looked the same to everyone. We’re in a massive library that stretches all the way to the sky. It’s beautiful, with oak and teak shelves, gorgeous patterns in the wood, and beautiful books. There’s endless amounts to read and look at.

Shakespeare's exquisite imagining belies our total inability to live in the present moment.

Shakespeare's work had a liberating influence.

She always wanted to be the kind of person who could play the "Moonlight" Sonata. She buries her failure in this, as she buries all her failures, in reading.

She could have happily lived inside any nineteenth century novel.

She could read anything now, he said, and once you can read anything you can learn everything. It was up to her. “Nobody's come close to filling their brains,” he said. “We're all like giraffes not using their necks to reach the higher leaves.

She couldn't help thinking that something was wrong with a person had more shoes than books in their home.

She curled sideways into the milky light of the bedside lamp and began to read.

She found the book tucked at the edge of a shelf in the room where she sleeps, and it is thick with pages and words and characters, and reading helps Jinhua to remember and it helps her to forget--and it has been such a long, long time since she has held a book in her hands. When she is not reading Jinhua is sad...

She folds the pages of the books she reads when she wants to remember something important. Her favorite books are accordions, testaments to an endless search for meaning.

She had forced herself to learn to read – picked up bits and pieces, here and there, from the very few teachers who had been patient with her; from looking at words while out and about; from television, and from friends. And to avoid the shouting and drug-induced moaning, and the row of male visitors her mum would entertain, she would barricade herself in her room – there'd been no lock – and lose herself in books.

She had the bizarre feeling of time bending all around her, as though she was from the past reading about the future, or from the future reading about the past.

She hung tightly onto the book for no other reason than it signified a connection to someone else in the world.

[...] She knew it a book it was not just a book. Everything had a meaning. There was an invisible web that connected the words. It was like magic

she kept sliding down, in small half-willing surrenders, till she was a heap, with the book held tiringly above her face.

She just wanted - had always wanted - a good book to read. Being chased by hellhounds and blowing things up were comparatively unimportant parts of the job. Getting the books - now, that was what *really* mattered to her.

She knew where she stood, when she stood among books.

She liked getting hold of some book... and keeping it to herself, and gnawing its contents in privacy, and pondering the meaning without sharing her thoughts with any one, or having to decide whether the book was a good one or a bad one.

She lost touch with reality and was dragged into her imagination.

She liked to watch her father as he read, and to listen to the smoothly rolling tones; she felt no curiosity about what the words meant. It was only Shakespeare and she was used to him.

Shelves full of books are all around me. Opening the different volumes I take a look, and find the pages covered with writings in unknown scripts — tadpole traces, bird feet markings, twisted branches. And in my dream I am able to read them all, to make sense of everything despite its difficulty.

She loved sinking into her bed on evenings like this, but apparently she shouldn't, because it worried her aunts, who thought she ought to be out dancing. It worried her a little bit, too, because what if they were right, and because sometimes a great loneliness welled up in her and threatened all the dams she built to hold it back. You couldn't cure loneliness by wallowing in it, up above the world, on an island removed from everything. She knew that. But she had such a hard time with all the cures. They seemed rough and brusque and brutal, as if they abused her skin with a pot scrubber . . . forcing herself into a mass of people, a stranger among strangers. . . . But it was much more tempting to curl up with a book under her thick white comforter. Still, sometimes after she curled up, she regretted her lack of courage and felt bleakly lonely. It was important to have a really good book.

She must have been very anxious about a first boy friend to fall in love with a Colgate boy

She might not have read many books. But when she reads a book, she swallows the very words. If you open the books on her shelves, you will find that the front and back covers encase white pages.

She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live. She read books as one would breathe ether, to sink in and die.

She read Dickens in the same spirit she would have eloped with him.

She remembered one of her boyfriends asking, offhandedly, how many books she read in a year. "A few hundred," she said. "How do you have the time?" he asked, gobsmacked. She narrowed her eyes and considered the array of potential answers in front of her. Because I don't spend hours flipping through cable complaining there's nothing on? Because my entire Sunday is not eaten up with pre-game, in-game, and post-game talking heads? Because I do not spend every night drinking overpriced beer and engaging in dick-swinging contests with the other financirati? Because when I am waiting in line, at the gym, on the train, eating lunch, I am not complaining about the wait/staring into space/admiring myself in reflective surfaces? I am reading! "I don't know," she said, shrugging.

She read her way around the library, hungry for journeys, adventures, laughter and passion. She took each new book to bed like a lover, savouring every chapter, going too far some nights until the letters danced like insects and she was groggy next day at work. But still she'd sneak away for lunchtime trysts, her eager fingers fumbling for the bookmark.

She's always loved writers, even more than the books I think. They're like personal friends to her.

She read all sorts of things: travels, and sermons, and old magazines. Nothing was so dull that she couldn't get through with it. Anything really interesting absorbed her so that she never knew what was going on about her. The little girls to whose houses she went visiting had found this out, and always hid away their story-books when she was expected to tea. If they didn't do this, she was sure to pick one up and plunge in, and then it was no use to call her, or tug at her dress, for she neither saw nor heard anything more, till it was time to go home.

She reads a lot of books. Good things, books.

She sat in a corner warm with sunlight, a copy of Home Notes open unread upon her knee, and watched the green meadows flying past while the business men in the carriage talked about news in the papers— awful, as usual— their golf, their gardeners, and the detective stories they were reading.

She sighed and looked at him sympathetically. 'Cool flame tricks aside, there's no competition.' He lifted his eyebrow. 'Library wins?' 'Every single time.

She sighed once, wishing she had a talent for the details of telling stories. She wasn't bad at themes, she mused, but she could never figure out how to turn a theme into an engaging tale. So she read instead, and admired those who could.

She started reading novels to put herself in the way of secret lives.

She strolled between shelves, looking at titles, smiling as she met old friends - books she had read three times or five times or a dozen. Just a title, or an author's name, would be enough to summon up happy images. Strange creatures like phoenixes and psammeads, moving under smokey London daylight of a hundred years before, in company with groups of bemused children; starships and new worlds and the limitless vistas of interstellar night, outer space challenged but never conquered; princesses in silver and golden dresses, princes and heroes carrying swords like sharpened lines of light, monsters rising out of weedy tarns, wild creatures that talked and tricked one another...

She trailed her fingers along the book spines as she wandered around the room. “My father thinks reading is a waste of time.” Hunter thought her father was a waste of space.

She was still clutching the book. She was holding desperately on to the words who had saved her life.

She writes like she’s starving and reads like she’s feasting.

She would go off in the morning with the punt full of books, and spend long glorious days away in the forest lying on the green springy carpet of whortleberries, reading. She would most diligently work at furnishing her empty mind. She would sternly endeavour to train it not to jump.

Shockingly, too many of our children don't read to grade level. Studies show that if a child does not read to grade level by third grade, that child is likely to drop out of school. I believe the love of reading begins at home. We should do all we can to make sure that our children and grandchildren stay in school and graduate. Reading to grade level is an important foundation.

Shout out for Joy! Don`t scream out in fear for victors shout and victims scream.

Signs form a language, but not the one you think you know.

Since a leader cannot rise above his thinking, he must assault his limiting beliefs daily thru reading, listening & associating.

Since we never get everything we want or need from our families, we look for sufficiency in surrogates.

So I ask you: whose job is it in this country to wake up comatose parents? Someone better do it soon because knowing television's potential for harm and keeping that knowledge to ourselves instead of sharing it with parents amounts to covering up a land mine on a busy street.