You know what they say: When people start burning books they'll soon burn human beings.
The world was a terrible place, cruel, pitiless, dark as a bad dream. Not a good place to live. Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness - and love. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly.
Stories never really end...even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page.
A reader doesn't really see the characters in a story; he feels them.
Nothing is more frightening than a fear you cannot name.
Books have to be heavy because the whole world's inside them.
A library book, I imagine, is a happy book.
Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.
a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.
She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books - looks as if she likes them better than human company.
Please," she whispered as she opened the book, "please get me out of here just for an hour or so, please take me far, far away
She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?
If you take a book with you on a journey," Mo had said when he put the first one in her box, "an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it... yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.
Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?" Mo had said..."As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells...and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower...both strange and familiar.
Why do grown-ups think it's easier for children to bear secrets than the truth? Don't they know about the horror stories we imagine to explain the secrets?
Nothing is more terrifying than fearlessness.
Hope. Nothing is more intoxicating.
When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer.
Women were different, no doubt about it. Men broke so much more quickly. Grief didn't break women. Instead it wore them down, it hollowed them out very slowly.
The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.
Which of us has not felt that the character we are reading in the printed page is more real than the person standing beside us?
When you open a book it's like going to the theater first you see the curtain then it is pulled aside and the show begins.
The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages.
So what? All writers are lunatics!
In love - it sounded like a sickness without any cure, and wasn't that just how it sometimes felt?
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