I never talked to anyone about my reading; the need to share came afterwords.

Every reader exists to ensure for a certain book a modest immortality. Reading is, in this sense, a ritual of rebirth.

Maybe this is why we read, and why in moments of darkness we return to books: to find words for what we already know.

The love of libraries, like most loves, must be learned.

Each book was a world unto itself, and in it I took refuge.

I have no feelings of guilt regarding the books I have not read and perhaps will never read; I know that my books have unlimited patience. They will wait for me till the end of my days.

I always knew that I wanted to live with books, even as a child, because we traveled a lot. Home was the book to which I came back every evening.

Every library is a library of preferences, and every chosen category implies an exclusion.

If justice takes place, there may be hope, even in the face of a seemingly capricious divinity.

Unicorns, dragons, witches may be creatures conjured up in dreams, but on the page their needs, joys, anguishes, and redemptions should be just as true as those of Madame Bovary or Martin Chuzzlewit.

One book calls to another unexpectedly, creating alliances across different cultures and centuries.

Failure is only an option

I should have been conceived during Woodstock

I went to a restaurant that serves 'breakfast at any time'. So I ordered French Toast during the Renaissance.

Patch’s eyes were black orbs. Taking in everything and giving away nothing.

The stage is the place I feel comfortable - it's almost as if real life is where I feel most nervous. Conversations are a lot more nerve-wracking.

So long as I confine my thoughts to my own ideas divested of words, I do not see how I can be easily mistaken.

The more I examine the issue of clutter, the more effort I put into combating it, because it really does act as a weight.

I don't want to impose on anyone else and make anyone else emotional or anything. I tend to quietly cry, kind of turn away.

I live to ride, and ride to live.

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet, And golden locks in breezy play, Half teasing and half tender, to repeat Her song of May.