Each of them is a book through which other books dream. (referring to Nodier's SMARRA and TRILBY)
His novel or book of poems, decent, adequate, arises not from an exercise of style or will, as the poor unfortunate believes, but as the result of an exercise of concealment. There must be many books, many lovely pines, to shield from hungry eyes the book that really matters, the wretched cave of our misfortune, the magic flower of winter!
Living your life is a long and doggy business. . . . And stories and books help. Some help you with the living itself. Some help you just take a break. The best do both at the same time.
There is no literature anymore, there are just single books that arrive in bookstores, just as letters, newspapers, advertising pamphlets arrive in mailboxes.
Only humans could write such pain and love, could make her swoon one minute and cry the next over something that had never really happened to people who’d never really existed.
Story ideas are the dreams of our waking minds
The hardest thing to write is a sentence that says as much as a page.
Writing a book is like telling a stranger your secrets.
Books are the vice of saints
Our lives are woven together like these threads yet the beauty is fragile.
The books in her shop weren’t merely things. They were gifts wrapped in imagination, inspiration, excite ment, pain, and heartache. Gifts given by thousands of writers. Gifts just waiting to be opened.
Thank God for books; let them be your friends and companions through life—for information, for recreation, but above all for inspiration.
In the study she nodded to my husband, turned completely around once, and then remarked that we seemed to be making no practical use of the space in our house. “This room would be much larger,” she said, “if you took out all those books.” Mrs. Ferrier thought the master bedroom should have faced west, and she barely put her head inside the smaller bedrooms. “They would be much larger,” I told her, “if we took out the beds.” Mrs. Ferrier fixed me with her cold eye. “If you took out the beds where would you sleep?” she wanted to know, and I followed her meekly downstairs.
It was better to be alone miserable. It was better to drown.
It seemed to her at last that she would do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness to the organ of pure reason.
And I could read you far easily than I could the books in the library.
Motherly love flowed over her features, like a gentle light illuminating a hidden path
You hold me like a favored book Pressing my spine with your fingers Leafing through my pages Anticipating each phrase You rest me on your knee As you ponder their meaning Feeling me weave Lyrically through your soul And when you return to me You devour me from cover to cover
Hayat başkalarının hatalarını yüklenemeyecek kadar kısaydı. Herkes kendi hayatını yaşıyor ve bu hayatı yaşamanın bedelini ödüyordu. Acı olansa, insanın çoğu zaman tek bir hata için çok fazla bedel ödemek zorunda kalmasıydı. Aslına bakılırsa, insan tek bir hata için sürekli bedel ödeyip duruyordu. Kader, insanla olan alışverişinde alacak defterini hiçbir zaman kapatmıyordu.
A book is a very powerful tool. People hardly believe strangers but they mostly believe books written by strangers.
