behind closed doors.
cobblestone streets, dark chocolate, breakfast any time of day, food trucks, exploring cities, coffee shops, scarves, watching snow accumulate, unexpected adventures, grapefruit, foreign languages, photography, speculoos, musicals, macarons, flat whites, reading all day, oatmeal, cardigans, typography
Elle ne sait pas qui je suis maintenant, elle a même oublié qui j’étais. // She doesn’t know who I am now, and she’s even forgotten who I was.
Nathalie Sarraute, Enfance

Tout le monde sait comment on fait les bébés
Mais personne sait comment on fait des papas

(Source: Spotify)

Rien n’est plus difficile que de peindre un homme que l’on connaît trop. Par où commencer?

Nothing is more difficult than describing a man one knows too well. Where do you start?


Vercors, Le Silence de la mer, « La Marche à l’étoile »

Fallin’ from the sky
There are raindrops in my eyes
And my thoughts are diggin’ in the backyard
My roots have grown but I don’t know where they are

(Source: Spotify)

I could imagine it, I could remember it. But I couldn’t see it again, and it occurred to me that the voracious ambition of humans is never sated by dreams coming true, because there is always the thought that everything might be done better and again.
John Green, The Fault in Our Stars, Ch. 25
You have a choice in the world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories.
John Green, The Fault in Our Stars, Ch. 13
The weird thing about houses is that they almost always look like nothing is happening inside of them, even though they contain most of our lives. I wondered if that was sort of the point of architecture.
John Green, The Fault in Our Stars, Ch. 10
They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Pascal Campion
http://pascalcampion.tumblr.com

"For a while at least, through the power of a story and the beauty of its language, the child escapes to a world of his own. He leaves the room richer than when he entered it." — Pura Belpré
New York Public Library, May 2014

"For a while at least, through the power of a story and the beauty of its language, the child escapes to a world of his own. He leaves the room richer than when he entered it." — Pura Belpré

New York Public Library, May 2014

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