Impossible Saints | 
Books were their drugs, the magic carpets onto which they flung themselves in order to be borne away somewhere else, books lifted them up like powerful caressing hands and cradled them like mothers do, as though they were babies to be held and fed, they fell asleep, sated with reading, then woke again, into pages of words, unknown, beckoning, a new world, and started another book.
Pic from the Hardmans' House, Liverpool.
Deblovestoread What a wonderful quote. 2d
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