I just finished reading Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane, and I feel so great. The use of myth and shifting memory was fantastic. It definitely renewed that sense of magic I feel after closing a good book.

Erin Morgenstern reviewed the book perfectly:

"I’ve read The Ocean at the End of the Lane in one sitting. It is soaked in myth and memory and salt water and it is so, so lovely. It feels as if it was always there, somewhere in the story-stuff of the universe."

Listening to sad breakup music and drinking tea while it’s still 90 degrees outside. The weather does not agree with my mood.

Virginia Woolf was a writer’s writer. For as many moments of artistic despair as there are, one also finds glimmers of hope, of faith in the process. In 1933, she wrote, “I must not let myself believe that I’m simply a ladylike prattler: […] No, I must say to myself, this is a mere wisp, a veil of water; and so create, hardly, fiercely, as I feel now more able to do than ever before.” In 1934, she spoke directly to those of us who would come after her: “A note, by way of advising other Virginias with other books that this is the way of the thing: up down up down – and Lord knows the truth.”

from On Reading Virginia Woolf’s Diary by Dana Staves (via bookriot)