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@azamsbookshelf

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👩‍🎓👩‍💻 Bookaholic scientist 📘📕
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ای نهایت رسیدن …🥹❤️
وقتی تو کوچه های یه کشور غریب قدم میزنی و …
۱. زاگرب، کروواسی
۲. ونیز ایتالیا
#iran by @azamsbookshelf

دور نیست …
ایران
#Iran by @azamsbookshelf

Statue of Liberty, New York 🇺🇸🗽 by @azamsbookshelf

Acropolis of Athens 🇬🇷 by @azamsbookshelf

by @azamsbookshelf

Bruges la Morte by Georges Rodenbach, an unusual little novel that left me genuinely unsure how to feel about it. It made me think about so many things, especially how Rodenbach managed to make me picture the main character, Hugo, a man in his 40s, as if he were an old, fragile grandpa wandering through Bruges at dusk. I could feel the beauty of the canals and the narrow streets… yet he somehow convinced me that behind all that beauty, the city was dark, drained, almost dead. Just like Hugo’s beloved wife, once bright and lively, now gone.

Hugo is young but feels ancient, and we actually learn very little about him. He has been grieving his wife for years, and he moves to Bruges seemingly for the sole purpose of grieving even more. From the outside his grief looks dignified, but inside it feels almost suffocating, disturbingly overwhelming.

Then one night at the theatre he encounters a woman who looks like a clone of his dead wife and that sends him spiralling down an even stranger path. I kept reading, curious where his story would end, but at the same time I kept wandering through Bruges in my mind…

#brugeslaMorte by @azamsbookshelf

🍁🍂 Westminster Abbey, London by @azamsbookshelf

Maybe I wandered for hours today in this antique shop and old bookshop, reading notes left by people long gone, written when they were still here. It felt like I was traveling through time, peeking into their homes—when they wrote with a smile on their lips about missing a loved one far away, or when someone a hundred years ago sat by the window reading, sometimes underlining words as the ink of their pen stretched and spilled across the page, reaching all the way to today. Or maybe it was those memories themselves that traveled into the future, and for some reason, those words came alive again today through my eyes and my words…

شاید ساعتها تو این مغازه عطیقه فروشی و کتابفروشی کتب قدیمی پرسه زدم امروز، یادداشتهای آدمهای قدیمی رو خوندم که وقتی هنوز اینجابودند نوشتند من انگار سفر در زمان کردم و سرک کشیدم تو خونه هاشون وقتی لبخند به لب از دلتنگیشون برای عزیز دورافتاده شون مینوشتند یا اونی که صد سال پیش کنار پنجره کتاب میخوند و هر از گاهی زیر کلمات خط میکشید و مرکب قلمش قد کشید رو کلمات و پخش شد تا امروز رسید. شایدم اون خاطره ها سفر کردند به آینده و امروز به هر دلیلی اون کلمات با نگاههای من دوباره جون گرفتند … by @azamsbookshelf

Athens Acropolis 🇬🇷
آتن by @azamsbookshelf

I lived a childhood dream in Heidi’s village today 🏘️😍🥹
Maienfeld Switzerland 🇨🇭
#maienfeld #heidi
دهکده هایدی by @azamsbookshelf

I started reading The Wren, The Wren by Anne Enright months ago, but it didn’t land with me then, so I set it aside. Last week, I picked it up again — and this time, I couldn’t put it down. Not only did I finish it, I actually enjoyed it.

The novel spans three generations: Phil, a celebrated poet; his wife Terry; their daughters Carmel and Imelda; and Carmel’s daughter, Nell. For me, it’s a story about inheritance — not of money or property, but of trauma. Of how pain is passed down, reshaped, sometimes dulled, sometimes sharpened — and how it changes what we expect and accept in life.

What stayed with me most was the contrast between how a famous person is remembered by the world and how they’re remembered by their family. Phil was revered publicly, but to his daughters he was absent and damaging. Toward the end, Carmel finds an old online interview where he casually talks about her mother’s illness (BTW she had just returned home from a breast cancer surgery 😢) and how their marriage didn’t survive. A stranger might pity him, but for Carmel it reopens an old wound.

Carmel was my favourite — flawed, sharp, layered. I couldn’t really tolerate Nell, though I did feel sorry for her. She was lost and messy, weighed down by things she couldn’t name. But it seemed, in the end, that she found someone good for her. And maybe that’s the hopeful thread in a story shaped by abandonment: the quiet possibility of healing.😌 by @azamsbookshelf

Just finished Oh William! by Elizabeth Strout and truly loved it — not because it’s a happy story, but because of how honestly it explores pain, memory, and connection. I felt Lucy’s shame, her quiet joy, her ache.

Funny enough, I didn’t realise until after finishing that I’d already read one of Strout’s Olive books — just one, randomly — but that’s the magic of her writing. Each book stands alone. Same with this one. I found out it’s the third in the Lucy Barton series after finishing it, and it still worked beautifully on its own.

This book centers on Lucy’s ex-husband William — his traumas, his affairs, his stubborn refusal to seek help. After her second husband David dies, William leans heavily on Lucy… because of course, she’s the only one he’ll talk to. But by the end, Lucy starts to question that pull.

What moved me most was how, toward the end, she begins to talk about David — how good he was, how safe she felt with him. And I wondered: did she realise this while he was alive, or only now, after therapy and grief, does it fully hit her?

A quiet, emotionally layered read. Strout doesn’t write drama — she writes truth. by @azamsbookshelf