How well he’s read, to reason against reading!
For readers, one of life’s most electrifying discoveries is that they are readers – not just capable of doing it, but in love with it. Hopelessly. Head over heels.
You’re in books. Of course you don’t have a life. None of us do. There’s always something too good to read.
You read too much and understand too little.
You don’t read in your own field. You read in that field when you’re young, so that you can learn.
You could read Kant by yourself, if you wanted; but you must share a joke with some one else.
You can read the whole future of mankind in the past.
Why can’t people just sit and read books and be nice to each other?
Whenever you read a good book, somewhere in the world a door opens to allow in more light.
When one reads hurriedly and nervously, having in mind written tests and examinations, one’s brain becomes encumbered with a lot of choice bric-a-brac for which there seems to be little use.
When I am king, they shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books; for a full belly is little worth where the mind is starved, and the heart.
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.
