Bookmarks With Love Quotes

But Neve, you can’t start a book and leave it halfway through,’ he’d said implacably. ‘It’s almost as bad as turning down the corner of the page, instead of using a bookmark.

Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.

He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn’t work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. “What does love mean to you?” I said. “That’s an impossible question,” he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end

The attitude you pose is greatly influenced by the links of friendships you bookmark. Good friends, good attitudes; best friends, best attitudes. Guess what for toxic friends...!

...when everything changes, I need a bookmark - I need you...

As I write this it’s occurring to me that the books I most adore are the ones that archive the people who have handled them—dogears, or old receipts used as bookmarks (always a lovely digression). Underlines and exclamation points, and this in an old library book! The tender vandalisms by which, sometimes, we express our love.

I love bookshelves, and stacks of books, spines, typography, and the feel of pages between my fingertips. I love bookmarks, and old bindings, and stars in margins next to beautiful passages. I love exuberant underlinings that recall to me a swoon of language-love from a long-ago reading, something I hoped to remember. I love book plates, and inscriptions in gifts from loved ones, I love author signatures, and I love books sitting around reminding me of them, being present in my life, being. I love books. Not just for what they contain. I love them as objects too, as ever-present reminders of what they contain, and because they are beautiful. They are one of my favorite things in life, really at the tiptop of the list, easily my favorite inanimate things in existence, and ... I am just not cottoning on to this idea of making them ... not exist anymore. Making them cease to take up space in the world, in my life? No, please do not take away the physical reality of my books.

He moved my hand into his, and as our fingers intertwined, it occurred to me that love wasn’t all that I’d feared it to be. I had imagined that it was a wildfire that incinerated everything in its path. Instead, it felt as ordinary and extraordinary as waking up to a new day.

Manage me, I am a mess, swept under the rug of yesterday’s home improvement, a whimsical urge tossed aside for the easy reassurance of home and comfort. I am the photograph tucked away as a book-mark, in a book left half unread, once reopened to find memories crawling back into peripheral sight, faded, creased and lonely. I long to be admired, long to be held, torn and laughed at, laughed with, like a distant relative or an old friend breathing in their last breath. I missed the moment when time collapsed and memory was erased, replaced by finicky social experiments, lost in the blur of intoxication, sucked through multi-colored bendy-straws, making way for a spinning world where hub-caps stood still, but our vision didn’t. If I could leave you with only one thing, it would be small, foldable, and made from trees, with a few careless words, scribbled in blue; Take a minute to learn me, take a moment to love me, because I need your love to live,and without it, I am nothing.

When we’re together … it’s as though we are like water in the river, my thoughts flowing through yours, yours through mine. And when we are silent”—a faint smile tugged at his lips—“I forget you are even there sometimes.” “I’m flattered, nauri,” I said drily. “It is the greatest compliment. I dislike being around people for too long. But when I am with you … I never feel the need to be someone I am not.

People aren't books. You can't bookmark your favourite pages to return to whenever you're feeling lonely; when the nights are too cold and you need something familiar to keep you warm, you can't reopen their spines and wear out their pages and call that obsession love.

There is only you.” His words caressed me, winding themselves around my soul. “There will only ever be you. I promise, Hyeon-ah.

He stared, a line forming between his brows. Then with a shake of his head, he murmured, “You must have been a general in your past life. A most irritatingly stubborn one.

But if Miss Golightly remained unconscious of my existence, except as a doorbell convenience, I became, through the summer, rather an authority on hers. I discovered, from observing the trash-basket outside her door, that her regular reading consisted of tabloids and travel folders and astrological charts; that she smoked an esoteric cigarette called Picayunes; survived on cottage cheese and Melba Toast; that her vari-colored hair was somewhat self-induced. The same source made it evident that she received V-letters by the bale. They were torn into strips like bookmarks. I used occasionally to pluck myself a bookmark in passing. Remember and miss you and rain and please write and damn and goddamn were the words that recurred most often on these slips; those, and lonesome and love.

The true work of love resides in sticking with the process, especially in those moments, and eras, when desire is forced to coexist with doubt.

For news of the heart ask the face. GUINEA

your heart is a library filled with novels about the people you love and even if they’re no longer in your life the love you once felt can be found within these pages available for you to reread on a rainy afternoon when you need their warm embrace part of loving someone is letting them go while letting them know they forever have a space in your heart’s library bookmarked for their return

He loved physical books with the same avidity other people loved horses or wine or prog rock. He'd never really warmed to ebooks because they seemed to reduce a book to a computer file, and computer files were disposable things, things you never really owned. He had no emails from ten years ago but still owned every book he bought that year. Besides, what was more perfect an object than a book? The different rags of paper, smooth or rough under your fingers. The edge of the page pressed into your thumbprint as you turned a new chapter. The way your bookmark - fancy, modest, scrap paper, candy wrapper - moved through the width of it, marking your progress, a little further each time you folded it shut.

Everytime I write, it's a catharsis. Even if I never got paid for it, I'd feel compelled to do it. And that's what makes a true writer. It's not how many readers you have or how many publishing contracts. Do you love to write? Then you're an author. No one can take that away from you.

You’re not quite the one because you don’t feel permanent. You’re lovely. You’re here. You’re soft and comfortable and I can curl up beside you and hey, at least neither of us are alone. You don’t feel like the start of something, you feel like the continuation of nothing. You’re not quite the one because we’re not even thinking about crazy concepts like the “one.” No one is meeting anyone’s parents. No one is going to be a plus-one at anyone’s friend’s weddings. No one is holding hands on the subway train. You’re not quite the one because you’re not meant to be the one. You’re a bookmark, a beautiful pause, a blinking light on hold at an office desk.

I,” I start, and she turns to look at my lips moving, rehearsing for some grand proposal. “I think it’d be good idea if you brought a few books over and left them on my shelf.” I’m a writer, and this is as good as it gets. She didn’t need a ring, just the ability to borrow a bookmark whenever she needed, or unwritten or unspoken permission to take my copy of Cecil Brown’s The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger with the original cover.

Second hand books had so much life in them. They'd lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They'd been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned. "Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths, and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had child-like scrawls on the acknowledgement page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark. Then there were the pristine novels, ones that had been read carefully, bookmarks used, almost like their owner barely pried the pages open so loathe were they to damage their treasure. I loved them all. And I found it hard to part with them. Though years of book selling had steeled me. I had to let them go, and each time made a fervent wish they'd be read well, and often. Missy, my best friend, said I was completely cuckoo, and that I spent too much time alone in my shadowy shop, because I believed my books communicated with me. A soft sigh here, as they stretched their bindings when dawn broke, or a hum, as they anticipated a customer hovering close who might run a hand along their cover, tempting them to flutter their pages hello. Books were fussy when it came to their owners, and gave off a type of sound, an almost imperceptible whirr, when the right person was near. Most people weren't aware that books chose us, at the time when we needed them.

If you don’t want your life ruined, I had better not see you lurking around a crime scene again.” A frown drifted across my brows. I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Of course,” I whispered back. “I highly doubt our paths will ever cross again.

Eres es la explosión de rosas en un cuarto oscuro. O el sabor inesperado y dulce en el té que tomamos en Starbucks You are the moon that gives midnight its meaning. And the explanation of water for all living things. You are my compass, A sapphire, A bookmark, A rare coin, Un trompo, Un canica, De mi juventud. Eres miel y canela chocolate y jamoncillo. You are rare spices lost from a boat That was once sailed by Cortez. Eres un rosa, prensado en un libro un anillo de perla de herencia y un frasco de perfume rojo que se encuentran cerca de las orillas del Nilo. You are an old soul from an ancient place, A thousand years and centuries and milleniums ago. And you have traveld all this way… Just so that I could love you… And, I do.

She received V-letters by the bale. They were always torn into strips like bookmarks. I used occasionally to pluck myself a bookmark in passing. Remember and miss you and rain and please write and damn and goddamn were the words that recurred most often on these slips; those, and lonesome and love.

She received V-letters by the bale. They were always torn into strips like bookmarks. I used occasionally to pluck myself a bookmark in passing. Remember and miss you and rain and please write and damn and goddamn were the words that recurred most often on these slips; those, and lonesome and love.

Blythe's favorite shelf near the coffee area. She'd labeled it W.O.W. (WORDS OF WISDOM) and it was stocked with her perennial favorites with bookmarked passages. Natalie used to love browsing that shelf. A book would never betray you or change its mind or make you feel stupid. She took down The Once and Future King and found a marked passage: "The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails."

He couldn’t bear to live, but he couldn’t bear to die. He couldn’t bear the thought of her making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn’t bear to keep it, but he couldn’t bear to destroy it either. So he tried to lose it. He left it by the wax-weeping candle holders, placed it between matzos every Passover, dropped it without regard among rumpled papers on his cluttered desk, hoping it wouldn’t be there when he returned. But it was always there. He tried to massage it out of his pocket while sitting on the bench in front of the fountain of the prostrate mermaid, but when he inserted his hand for his hanky, it was there. He hid it like a bookmark in one of the novels he most hated, but the note would appear several days later between the pages of one of the Western books that he alone in the shtetl read, one of the books that the note had now spoiled for him forever. But like his life, he couldn’t for the life of him lose the note. It kept returning to him. It stayed with him, like a part of him, like a birthmark, like a limb, it was on him, in him, him, his hymn: I had to do it for myself.

Another time, I happened to find a pressed flower someone had left as a bookmark. As I inhaled the scent of the long-ago faded flower, I wondered about the person who had put it there. Who in the world was she? When did she live? What was she feeling? It’s only in secondhand books that you can savor encounters like this, connections that transcend time. And that’s how I learned to love the secondhand bookstore that handled these books, our Morisaki Bookshop. I realized how precious a chance I’d been given, to be a part of that little place, where you can feel the quiet flow of time.

I was just settling into the salons of Austenian Bath when Gabriel muttered, "This is strange." I looked up to see him pulling a long blue-gray thread from between the nearly translucent pages. My jaw dropped, and I was kneeling on the chaise in a flash. "Is the binding coming loose? No, don't pull it! I can take it to my book doctor tomorrow night." "Stop hyperventilating, sweetheart. I think it's a bookmark," he said, pulling on the thread until he stretched it to my hand. "Here." I wound the thread around my finger. "What passage was it marking?" He scanned the page and lifted an eye. "It's an Edward and Jane scene. I know how you love those. Edward's saying, 'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you---especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.'" I was so caught up in watching his lips as they formed the words that I barely noticed the sudden tension on the fiber wound around my finger. I realized now that Gabriel had slipped a ring onto the thread and was sliding it toward me. I watched as the respectable diamond twinkled in the light of the oil lamp. "I'm not Edward, " Gabriel promised. "I'm not afraid the thread will break and leave me bleeding. Our thread's already been tested. And it will hold up. I'm asking you to make the link permanent. Please, marry me.

All I can offer is this (without a single remembrance or image, or even incoherent wisp of correspondence), even so I knew, in those eradicated moments, and I know still: That there, there outside the gates of any physical state or world we may inhabit, something is—which, being so unlike, so beautiful and radiant and eternal—can never be transported into living life, not even by a word. Brighter than fires, more soft than fur, better than the best—nameless, non-communicable, absolute. And, without a bookmark in our hearts or brains to enable us to find it while here, yet there—there it nevertheless is, and will be ever. There is nothing to fear or to regret. There is no end. Only always a Beginning—that not even the most lucid scripture, or most transcendent art (even that of the Scarlet Lily, Cremisia Ranaldi) can recreate. We touch upon it, yes, I believe we do, in our greatest poets (which is why, if only as a ghost, she could undo the door). In the best of love or joy, that too—but all of this is a shadow. The shadow of the Nothing which is Everything.

Now don't think I've lost my mind - but I'll tell you, I'll look at some of the cards I have, some of Van Gogh's pictures of the poor, the coal miners, or Daumier's, and I talk to those pictures! I look, and I speak. I get strength form the way those writers and artists portrayed the poor, that's how I've kept going all these years. I pray to God and go visit him in churches; and I have my conversational time with Van Gogh or with Dickens - I mean, I'll look at a painting reproduced on a postcard, that I use as a bookmark, or I read one of those underlined pages in one of my old books, and Lord, I've got my strength to get through the morning or afternoon! When I die, I hope people will say that I tried to be mindful of what Jesus told us - his wonderful stories - and I tried my best to live up to his example (we fall flat on our faces all the time, though!) and I tried to take those artists and novelists to heart, and live up to their wisdom (a lot of it came from Jesus, as you probably know, because Dickens and Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy kept thinking of Jesus themselves all through their lives).

I want to ask you a question: Who buys bookmarks?"               "What do you mean? People who love books?"               "You would think, right? But you're wrong. People who read books on the regular, yes, they buy bookmarks. But that rare breed like myself, and apparently our Ms. Cardinal here, people who snuggle with books, they don’t buy bookmarks."               "No?"               "No, we don’t, said Allie, turning pages carefully. "We go through books like crazy. And we'll stop in the middle of one to start another, and then go back to the first one after a long period of time, and we use whatever's at hand to mark our place; a receipt, a ticket stub, a tissue—

You are the explosion of carnations in a dark room. Or the unexpected scent of pine miles from the woods of Maine. You are a full moon that gives midnight it's meaning. And the explanation of water For all living things. You are a compass, a sapphire, a bookmark. A rare coin, a smooth stone, a marble. You are an old lore, a small shell, a saved silver dollar. You are a fine quartz, a feathered quill, and a fob from a favorite watch. You are a valentine tattered and loved and reread a hundred times. You are a medal found in the drawer of a once sung hero. You are honey, and cinnamon and West Indies spices, lost from the boat that was once Marco Polo's. You are a pressed rose, a pearl ring, and a red perfume bottle found near the Nile. You are an old soul from an ancient place a thousand years, and centuries and millenniums ago. And you have traveled all this way just so I could love you. I do.

Sometimes we bookmark our pain so later we may come back to it.

Do you not know me, nauri? I am Baek-hyeon.” I blinked the sweat from my eyes [...]“Once I set my mind on a task, I will not stop until I complete it.

There were ornaments she had loved and paintings she had chosen. Books she’d read, or would never finish, photographs which had smashed from their frames as they’d hit against the metal. Photographs she had dusted and cared for, of people who were clearly no longer here to claim themselves from the debris. It was so quickly disposed of, so easily dismantled. A small existence, disappeared. There was nothing left to say she’d even been there. Everything was exactly as it was before. As if someone had put a bookmark in her life and slammed it shut.

Did you bookmark the chapters detailing how Willa spent afternoons entertaining not one but two suitors, one in front and the other—?” “You seem to know a lot about that book.” “I love that fucking book,

The only thing that kept the lonliness at bay was the Library. Wandering the bookstacks at the British Library had always been a favorite passtime, not just because of the books themselves but because of the stories they held, the hands they had passed through. Dog ears, unexpected bookmarks, even love letters tucked into pages made it feel like a treasure hunt.

Blakely: You don’t have shelves? Halsey Holmes, that’s sacrilege to a book lover. Don’t you know the essentials to anyone who loves to read is a bookmark, a favorite snack, bookshelves, and a guilty pleasure genre that you read and don’t tell anyone about?

Secondhand books had so much life in them. They’d lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. They’d been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up a mountain where the air thinned. Some had been held aloft tepid rose-scented baths, and thickened and warped with moisture. Others had childlike scrawls on the acknowledgment page, little fingers looking for a blank space to leave their mark. Then there were the pristine novels, ones that had been read carefully, bookmarks used, almost like their owner barely pried the pages open so loath were they to damage their treasure. I loved them all.

Every bookmark tells a story.

Community of interest is the root of justice; community of suffering, the root of pity; community of joy, the root of love,

I wanted to develop some hobbies. So far, I hadn’t really developed any, but I did have a growing collection of empty wine bottles. That could be a hobby. And I had bookmarked several articles on making your own soap. In case, you know, soap ever wasn’t readily available.

Each day when we awaken from the bookmark of yesterday’s turmoil, we make choices of how to conduct our personal affairs. Each day we must decide if we will act humanely, ethically, and accord dignity to everyone whom we encounter. Each day of living, I fill out a personal diary. I must never be too afraid to wield the pen giving authorship to my own being. Each day is a test and with each day, we fill the pages of the novel that says who we are. Our acts and omissions mark our progress. Every action is a new sentence in our self-profile. Every failure to act is a blank page. We rightfully scorn the shallow author if he or she takes shortcuts and never attempts to gather a grain of personal enlightenment, if they brazenly fail to exhibit any sense dignity, or if they ignorantly lack any tincture of kindliness for other people. We all respond to someone whom loves other people, worships nature, and demonstrates that they know how to share their benevolence with other people.

আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস প্রজাপতির চিত্রল ডানা দেখে বিরহ থেকে বিবাহের দিকে চলে যায় মানবসম্প্রদায় — আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস ভেঙে দিয়েছি প্রজাপতির গন্ধসন্ধানী শুঁড় আমার নিজের কোনো বিশ্বাস নেই কাউর ওপর অলস বদ্মাস আমি মাঝে মাঝে বেশ্যার নাঙ হয়ে জীবন যাপনের কথা ভাবি যখন মদের নেশা কেটে আসে আর বন্ধুদের উল্লাস ইআর্কির ভেতর বসে টের পাই ব্যর্থ প্রেম চেয়ে দেখি পূর্ণিমা চাঁদের ভেতর জ্বলন্ত চিতা এখন আমি মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এক মৃতদেহ আমার জ্যান্ত শরীর নিয়ে চলে গেছে তার শাঁখাভাঙা বিধবার ঋতুরক্ত ন্যাকড়ার কাছে মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি — চিতাকাঠ শুয়ে আছে বৃক্ষের ভেতর প্রেম নেই প্রসূতিসদনে নেই আসন্নপ্রসবা স্ত্রী মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এ-ভাবেই রয়ে গেছি কেটে যায় দিন রাত বজ্রপাত অনাবৃষ্টি কত বালিকার মসৃণ বুকে গজিয়ে উঠল মাংসঢিবি কত কুমারীর গর্ভসঞ্চার গর্ভপাত — সত্যজিতের দেশ থেকে লাভ ইন টোকিও চলে গ্যালো পূর্ব আফরিকায় — মার্কাস স্কোয়ারে বঙ্গসংস্কৃতি ভারতসার্কাস রবীন্দ্রসদনে কবিসন্মিলন আর বৈজয়ন্তীমালার নাচ হল — আমার ত হল না কিছু কোনো উত্তরণ অবনতি কোনো গণিকার বাথরুম থেকে প্রেমিকার বিছানার দিকে আমার অনায়াস গতায়াত শেষ হয় নাই — আকাশগর্ভ থেকে তাই ঝরে পড়ে নক্ষত্রের ছাই পৃথিবীর বুকের ওপর তবু মর্গের ড্রয়ারে শুয়ে আছি এবং মৃতদেহ আমার জ্যান্ত শরীর নিয়ে চলে গ্যাছে তার শাঁখাভাঙা বিধবার ঋতুরক্ত ন্যাকড়ার কাছে প্রজাপতির চিত্রল ডানা দেখে বিরহ থেকে বিবাহের দিকে চলে যায় মানুষেরা আমি এক সৌন্দর্য রাক্ষস ভেঙে দিয়েছি প্রজাপতির গন্ধসন্ধানী শুঁড় রেটিং করুন Share this: TwitterFacebook Related মানুষের সঙ্গে কোনো বিরোধ নেইIn "কবিতা" প্যারিসের চিঠিIn "কবিতা" তোমাকেই চাইIn "কবিতা" This entry was posted in কবিতা and tagged ফালগুনী রায়, হাংরি আন্দোলন. Bookmark the permalink. পোস্টের নেভিগেশন « মানুষের সঙ্গে কোনো বিরোধ নেই নাচ মুখপুড়ি » মন্তব্য করুন কবি এবং কাব্যগ্রন্থঃ আখলাকের ফিরে যাওয়া (2) আনিসুল হক (4) আবুল হাসান (1) আব্দুল মান্নান সৈয়দ (11) আল মাহমুদ (58) ইমদাদুল হক মিলন (2) উপন্যাস (70) কবিতা (1,396) কেরানি ও দৌড়ে ছিল (22) গল্প (45) গ্রন্থ (4) জিহান আল হামাদী (2) তসলিমা নাসরিন (30) তারাপদ রায় (1) তাহমিদুর রহমান (1) নজরুল গীতি (37) নবারুন ভট্টাচার্য (1) নির্মলেন্দু গুণ (53) পাবলো নেরুদা (1) পূর্ণেন্দু পত্রী (4) বকুল ফুলের ভোরবেলাটি (1) বিকেলের বেহাগ (14) বেলাল চৌধুরি (14) ভুকন্যা (1) মনিভুষন ভট্টাচার্য্য (2) মহাদেব সাহা (43) মুহম্মদ নূরুল হুদা (1) যে জলে আগুন জ্বলে (3) রফিক আজাদ (1) রবীন্দ্র নাথ ঠাকুর (7) রবীন্দ্র সঙ্গীত (97) রুদ্র মুহান্মদ শহীদুল্লাহ (5) লিরিক (53) লেখক পরিচিতি (18) শহীদ কাদরী (7) শামসুর রাহমান (21) শেষের কবিতা (17) সবিনয় নিবেদন (3) সুকান্ত ভট্টাচার্য (1) সুকুমার রায় (1) সেলিনা হোসেন (1) সৈয়দ শামসুল হক (14) স্মৃতি চারন (41) হুমায়ুন আজাদ (26) হুমায়ুন আহমেদ (1) হেলাল হাফিজ (4) Uncategorized (85) যন্ত্রপাতিঃ রেজিষ্টার লগ ইন আর,এস,এস, মন্তব্য RSS WordPress.com এখানে খুজুন খোঁজ করুন ভোট দিন আমাদের সংকলন কেমন লেগেছে ? ভাল মোটামোটি খারাপ Vote View Results Crowdsignal.com সাম্প্রতিক পোস্ট সমূহ তাঁর দরকার ‘লিভ টুগেদার’! দেখিবার অপেক্ষায় আছোঁ অভিজ্ঞতা ছাড়া মহৎ সাহিত্য তৈরি হবে না তারে কই বড় বাজিকর বোধোদয় হলেই মঙ্গল বাংলা সংবাদপত্র Email Subscription Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Join 693 other followers আমাদের লিঙ্ক অল্পকথা ডট কম সেতুবন্ধন ডট কম Blog at WordPress.com. Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use.