Quotes About Library

Good libraries hold several millions of books: even if we read a book a day, we would read only 365 a year, around 3,600 in ten years, and between the ages of ten and eighty we'll have read only 25,200. A trifle.

Si Dieu existait, il serait une bibliothèque.

A library implies an act of faith which generations, still in darkness hid, sign in their night in witness of the dawn. À qui la faute? (1872)

Madame Magloire sometimes called him 'Your Highness.' One day, rising from his armchair, he went to his library for a book. It was on one of the upper shelves, and as the bishop was rather short, he could not reach it. 'Madame Magloire,' said he, 'bring me a chair. My highness cannot reach that shelf.

He had a small but well stocked library. He loved books; books are a remote but reliable friend.

Kitapl?k kurmak, tap?nak yapmak kadar kutsald?r.

La señora Magloire le llamaba siempre Vuestra Grandeza,un día se levantó de su sillón y fue a la biblioteca a buscar un libro. Estaba éste en una de las tablas más altas del estante, y como el obispo era de corta estatura, no pudo alcanzarlo. Señora Magloire, dijo, traedme una silla, porque mi Grandeza no lo alcanza a esa tabla.

Inside was a library unlike any Leni had ever seen. Row upon row of wooden desks, decorated with green banker's lamps, were positioned beneath an arched ceiling. Gothic chandeliers hung above the desks. And the books! She'd never seen so many. They whispered to her of unexplored worlds and unmet friends and she realized that she wasn't alone in this new world. Her friends were here, spine out, waiting for her as they always had.

Beneath the shoes lay Loreda's brand-new library card and The Hidden Staircase. Loreda looked up. "You went back? In the rain?" "Mrs. Quisdorf picked that book out for you. That card, though, that's the real gift. It can take you anywhere, Loreda.

Inside was a library unlike any Leni had ever seen. Row upon row of wooden desks, decorated with green banker's lamps, were positioned beneath an arched ceiling. Gothic chandeliers hung above the desks. And the books! She'd never seen so many. They whispered to her of unexplored worlds and unmet friends and she realized that she wasn't alone in this new world. Her friends were here, spine out, waiting for her as they always had.

Elsa knew that a library card—a thing they'd taken for granted all of their lives—meant there was still a future. A world beyond this struggle.

There had to be opportunities out there, but where would she find them? The library. Books held the answer to every question.

You got the library wrong, Eva.

When nightfall weaves its way through the New York Public Library, it is nothing shy of magic. Long stretched of sunlight on marble morph from white to yellow to pink to orange to red, the dim slowly, completely. Shadows yawn and stretch awake. Eighty-five miles of books on shelves blink away their daytime sleep, for book are often nocturnal creatures, ready to play. To roam. To hunt.

Picture books build readers, Mr. Leon. Two missing books from our collection is like two missing bricks from a cathedral.

He felt overwelmed when he thought of all the books he hadn't read, all the books he wanted to read, and all the books he would want to read. Not to mention all the books that he hadn't heard of. Those dismayed him the most.

I worked on scores. I went to the musical library in Berlin which is very famous. I discovered that we had scores of Beethoven, printed scores of Beethoven, that are full of mistakes. Not the wrong or false notes, but the wrong dynamic, understandable things.

putyourFACEinaBOOK

Perhaps no place in any community is so totally democratic as the town library. The only entrance requirement is interest.

The library knows its own mind," old Master Hyrrokkin told him, leading him back up the secret stairs. "When it steals a boy, we let it keep him.

He had loved the library, and had felt, as a boy, as though it had a kind of sentience, and perhaps loved him back. But even if it was just walls and a roof with papers inside, it had bewitched him, and drawn him in, and given him everything he needed to become himself.

He had loved the library, and had felt, as a boy, as though it had a kind of sentience, and perhaps loved him back.

Lazlo couldn't have belonged at the library more truly if he were a book himself.

Strange the dreamer - library stowaway and scholar of fairy tales - had never been thirstier, or more full of wonder.