I read, therefore I am.

She felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked; the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her lips. She hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her sky; she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness about her.

Edith Wharton, House of Mirth

1. cormactheskald likes this
2. alchemistofpoetry likes this
3. rohma-invicta reblogged this from thebookwormreview
4. simplybex reblogged this from zombiekatee
5. ashadowpassed likes this
6. zombiekatee reblogged this from quietontheinside
7. wretched-solitude likes this
8. readingduringintermission reblogged this from thebookwormreview
9. impedanceoflocomotion likes this
10. bestisyet2come likes this
11. samosass reblogged this from quietontheinside
12. appuntisparsieventuali reblogged this from thebookwormreview
13. theshamelessperry likes this
14. quietontheinside reblogged this from thebookwormreview
15. thebookwormreview posted this