Quotes About Books

Nel suo superno mondo dei libri, non c'era guerra, non c'erano malintesi: c'era solo l'eterno sapere e voler sempre più sapere in fatto di numeri e parole, di titoli e nomi.

En toda la noche no pude pensar sino en ti, aun antes de conocerte. Yo sólo tenía una docena de libros baratos, encuadernados con cartones rotos, y los quería más que a nada en el mundo, los leía una y otra vez. Y ahora me asediaba la pregunta de cómo sería el hombre que poseía y había leído tantos y tan maravillosos libros.

I hadn't had a book in my hands for four months, and the mere idea of a book where I could see words printed one after another, lines, pages, leaves, a book in which I could pursue new, different, fresh thoughts to divert me, could take them into my brain, had something both intoxicating and stupefying about it.

For this quiet, unprepossessing, passive man who has no garden in front of his subsidised flat, books are like flowers. He loves to line them up on the shelf in multicoloured rows: he watches over each of them with an old-fashioned gardener's delight, holds them like fragile objects in his thin, bloodless hands.

Invento i libri e racconto di averli letti. Fingo così bene e li rigiro nel cervello così a lungo che forse a quel punto potrei anche scriverli. Ma fantasticare è piacevole, scrivere è faticoso.

je sais que les livres sont faits pour unir les hommes par-delà la mort et nous défendre contre l'ennemi le plus implacable de toute vie, l'oubli.

This is not a real book. It does not deal with real people, nor should it be read by real people. But there are in the world so many real books already written for the benefit of real people, and there are still so many to be written, that I cannot believe that a little alien book such as this, written for the magically-inclined minority, can be considered a trespasser.

Flora had also learned the degraded art of 'tasting' unread books, and now, whenever her skimming eye lit on a phrase about heavy shapes, or sweat, or howls or bedposts, she just put the book back on the shelf, unread.

To tidy up takes time, and she wants all her time for wolfing books...

The sessions with Mr. Dubois continued, but it was in the private parlor of Abigail Braddock that Sarah Biddle received the greatest knowledge, for in Mrs. Braddock's private parlor Sarah Biddle learned not only to read books, but also to love them.

The deity is within you, not in ideas and books. Truth is lived, not taught.

Children know perfectly well that unicorns aren't real, but they also know that books about unicorns, if they are good books, are true books.

The truth is, I can't read anything with any distance. Every book is a self-help book to me. Just having them makes me feel better.

The truth is libraries are raucous clubhouses for free speech, controversy and community.

You couldn't always trust the history books. They told a diluted truth, a truth by committee.

Let not men think there is no truth, but in the sciences that they study, or the books that they read.

I read less and less. I have not forgiven books for their failure to tell me the truth and make me happy.

The truth is that I'm never sure how any of my books will be received, and because I can be thin-skinned, I try not to read too many reviews when a book first comes out.

He didn't know what books meant to her, that books were symbols of truth and meaning.

We love books because they are the greatest escape. That is because our own minds eye is the purest form of virtual reality.

When you grow up to be an author and write books, you'll think you're making the books up, but they'll all really be true, somewhere.

A first kiss in the book stacks. Now that was romantic.

I love books because I don't have to wait for the commercials to be over to find out what happens.

Not only were the books lost and the thoughts in the books, but what was to him, perhaps, the most searching loss of all, the hours of rumination which lifted him above himself and bore him upon their muffled and enormous wings. Not a day passed but he was reminded of some single volume, or of a series of works, whose very positions on the walls was so clearly indented in his mind.