wow i seriously had the best time at berkeley
I wanna make your smoke and kisses,
Black and white.
Measure all your spinning whispers,
In the loose moonlight.
Magic, from your fingers
Tingles down my spine.
Colour in between the lines.
Let it out, let it out.
Let it all out.
Let it out, let it out.
Let it all out.
You rearrange my mind
And there are millions of teens who read because they are sad and lonely and enraged. They read because they live in an often-terrible world. They read because they believe, despite the callow protestations of certain adults, that books-especially the dark and dangerous ones-will save them.
As a child, I read because books–violent and not, blasphemous and not, terrifying and not–were the most loving and trustworthy things in my life. I read widely, and loved plenty of the classics so, yes, I recognized the domestic terrors faced by Louisa May Alcott’s March sisters. But I became the kid chased by werewolves, vampires, and evil clowns in Stephen King’s books. I read books about monsters and monstrous things, often written with monstrous language, because they taught me how to battle the real monsters in my life.
And now I write books for teenagers because I vividly remember what it felt like to be a teen facing everyday and epic dangers. I don’t write to protect them. It’s far too late for that. I write to give them weapons–in the form of words and ideas-that will help them fight their monsters. I write in blood because I remember what it felt like to bleed.
"— Sherman Alexie, Why the Best Kids Books Are Written in Blood (via thefirstgentleman)
(via ineffable-gaudiness)
