The Bookworm's Haven

Mia. 16 going on 17. Ravenclaw. Avid Reader.

* * * * * * *

This is my book blog as well as my personal blog because I found it hard to manage two blogs at the same time. My personal life seems to be tied up with books and reading.

* * * * * * *

DISCLAIMER: All pictures/graphics featured in this blog belong to its respective copyright owners unless otherwise stated.

Read the Printed Word! free counters Books & Literature - Top Blogs Philippines
Mia's bookshelf: currently-reading

Fishing for CluesThe Sea of MonstersThe Lightning ThiefThe Adventures of Tom SawyerAnimal FarmThe Revenge of the Wannabes

More of Mia's books »
Mia's currently-reading book recommendations, reviews, favorite quotes, book clubs, book trivia, book lists

Mia Claire's classics book montage

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Little Women
The Secret Garden
Five Little Peppers and How They Grew
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
Heidi
The Little Prince
The Magician's Nephew
The Adventures of Robin Hood
White Fang
A Little Princess: The Story of Sara Crewe
Kidnapped
Anne of Green Gables
Anne of Avonlea
Much ADO about Nothing
The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer
Prince Caspian
Pride and Prejudice
Animal Farm
Les Miserables


Mia Claire's favorite books »
}

2011 Reading Challenge

Mia has read 7 books toward her goal of 111 books.
hide
1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die
1001  Books You Must Read Before You Die 10768 members
For those attempting the crazy feat of reading all 1001 books! For discerning bibliophiles and re...

Books we plan to read





View this group on Goodreads »
Recent Tweets @
Posts I Like
Posts tagged "love"
The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.
Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (via observando)

Invention of Love by Andrey Shushkov

A love story from the world of gears and bolts.

_______________________________________________________________


I was browsing through animated short films when I came across this one on Youtube. The animation, graphics, sound effects, and background music are all perfectly put together. Viewers will definitely be mesmerized by this heartbreaking poignant tale of love and loss.

_______________________________________________________________

Support the director:

If you like video, please Donate through paypal! http://shushkof.com/bio.html

Written & Directed by Andrey Shushkov
www.shushkof.com
facebook.com/shushkof

gallifreyanturtles:

And let’s talk about the fact that Joseph Gordon Levitt himself said the point of the movie is not so you’d feel bad for him and fall in love with him, it’s so you’d realize how selfish some people are.
Actual quote from him from an interview:
The (500) Days of Summer attitude of ‘He wants you so bad’ seems attractive to some women and men, especially younger ones but I would encourage anyone who has a crush on my character to watch it again and examine how selfish he is.”
"He develops a mildly delusional obsession over a girl onto whom he projects all these fantasies. He thinks she’ll give his life meaning because he doesn’t care about much else going on in his life. A lot of boys and girls think their lives will have meaning if they find a partner who wants nothing else in life but them. That’s not healthy. That’s falling in love with the idea of a person, not the actual person.”

(via sarahendipityy)

langleav:

Love & Misadventure by Lang Leav now in Barnes & Noble bookstores! Pick up a copy for yourself or a friend during your lunch break today or on your way home :) 

Also available on Kindle & Paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble + The Book Depository for free worldwide shipping.

(via dreamofneverland)

It’s all about falling in love with yourself and sharing that love with someone who appreciates you, rather than looking for love to compensate for a self love deficit.
Eartha Kitt  (via barbieandken)

(via jimmywhitesoxs)

Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Sensible Thing’ (via quotewhore)

(via zebrazarbez)

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
William Shakespeare “Hamlet” (via vasyamashina)
by Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird.

“Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl,” I tell someone.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?”

“Not really.”

“Your favorite type, then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah. Strange.”

“So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?”

“Nah. Just passed her on the street.”

She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I’d really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

“Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?”

Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman.

“Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?”

No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.”

No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She’s written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she’s ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?”

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

“This is amazing,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.”

“And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I’d pictured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.”

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It’s a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other’s 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.”

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don’t you think?

Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her.

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
William Shakespeare
From Hamlet
She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow.