Quotes About Bindings

I found that this was a desert region so obscure that the designers of atlases typically stitch page bindings directly over that very latitude and longitude, obliterating the map's topography as surely as any sandstorm.

By nature, a woman is independent though she can have bindings. But, she is a lone performer.

Fate controls who walks into your life, but you decide who leaves, stays, and who you refuse to let go. Who stays depends on the bindings between you.

Books, Mr. Landor!" "I do read, yes." Not much of a library—a scant three rows in all—but mine. Poe's fingers glided along the bindings.

Life pulls softly inside your bindings. The pod glows - dear stench.

After all, no matter how elegant the script or how beautiful the illuminations and bindings, the pages had been made from the hides of dead beasts.

The soft throb and glow roused in my breast by the gilt letters of four or five different languages winking at me from scores of handsomely tooled bindings—the sight of so much knowledge so beautifully presented—swiftly flamed out.

She smelled of clotted blood: iron and salt. I thought about iron and salt, and bindings and chains.

The bindings were calculated to do him very little harm, no matter how struggled.

Gold for collars and bindings. Silver for protection. Werewolves and wampyrs and such. And protection from iron, of course.

Books, books, books. It was not that I read so much. I read and re-read the same ones. But all of them were necessary to me. Their presence, their smell, the letters of their titles, and the texture of their leather bindings.

In Hollywood we acquire the finest novels in order to smell the leather bindings.

Yet identities persisted. On a personal level. Freedom was little more than a tattered net, draped over a host of minor, self-imposed bindings. Its stripping away changed little, except, perhaps, the comforting delusion of the ideal. Mind bound to self, self to flesh, flesh to bone. As the Errant wills, we are a latticework of cages, and whatever flutters within knows but one freedom, and that is death.

With a sense of fulfillment stronger even than the sating of his hunger that morning, for he'd been starved of books much longer than of food, Pico joined the browsers. Inhaling the odor of mildewed hide as if he'd entered a confectionery, fondling the bindings of stippled leather or buckled cloth, running his fingers across the raised letters of the titles as though blind, for a moment he wished he'd saved the coin to buy a book, then giggled at his folly.

The head was an old rook's nest which Francis had fetched down from a tree. It had taken her a whole morning to climb, extract the nest from its twisted bindings and transfer it down, relatively whole and undamaged. She filled holes with moss, and stuffed its insides with a bracken brain. 

With the increasing importance of standards for system-level objects such as COM and CORBA, it is particularly important that the C++ bindings to those be clean, well documented, and simple to use.

He'd grown so addicted to the feel of those books—the individual differences in the bindings, the leather or fabric covers, the weight of papers, the smell. They were a very different experience than these Blanks, which all felt so . . . sterile, somehow. Words that could be readily dismissed and replaced didn't have the same moral heft to them, to him

Standardization, instead of individualization. Cheap books, instead of private press editions. Active literature, instead of passive leather bindings.