Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
Every book has a soul, the soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and dream about it.
Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title.
Books are the ultimate Dumpees: put them down and they’ll wait for you forever; pay attention to them and they always love you back.
Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it’s an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day.
Any one who’s worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, with extravagant enthusiasm.
And you, CONSTANT READER. Thank God you’re still there after all these years. If you’re having fun, I am, too.
And thus by sleeping little, and reading much, the moisture of his brain was exhausted to that degree that at last he lost the use of his reason.
A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.
A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers.