Quotes About Books

You will be sent home. Lula loved being sent home. Her favorite books were there.

As we milled about before the meeting, I noticed the school had removed all the hallway lockers — "because of COVID." What this meant in practice was that the students, whose bodies were still growing and developing, had to carry an entire locker's worth of schoolbooks, seventy-plus pounds worth, in backpacks all day long.

A publisher of books, which sell for a nickel, made a discovery that should be worth much to publishers generally. He learned that many people buy titles, and not contents of books.

The books awed her by size, thickness, the staggering mass of lines and words to read before she could read all of them. Then having read all of the books must she carry in her head all that knowledge from the books? This too staggered her. Wouldn't my head feel queer? she asked Elder Brewster. Wouldn't my head feel heavy carrying so much knowledge? Could any of it spill out if there was too much?

Presents are delivered from the sky, in every package a prize, a chance, to choke, to suffocate, to forget, yes to forget every last word ever spoken of man higher in the scale than animal creation, the gorilla and the tiger being mere beasts while man has shrines, altars, lights, books awarding him personal immortality, books not yet banned nor burned.

Most of her contemporaries simply don't understand why she has all these paper books, or indeed all this paper. It's a hands-on craving. I can't remember anything unless I write it down or draw it. Many of our words for cognition are tactile words. We speak of handling a problem, turning it over in our minds, grasping an idea. A keyboard just doesn't do it for all of us.

Some like to believe it's the book that chooses the person.

Pocas cosas marcan tanto a un lector como el primer libro que realmente se abre camino hasta su corazón. Aquellas primeras imágenes, el eco de esas palabras que creemos haber dejado atrás, nos acompañan toda la vida y esconden un palacio en nuestra memoria al que, tarde o temprano –no importa cuántos libros leamos, cuántos mundos descubramos, cuánto aprendamos u olvidemos–, vamos a regresar.

Cada libro, cada tomo que ves, tiene alma. El alma de quién lo escribió, y el alma de quiénes lo leyeron y vivieron y soñaron con él. Cada vez que un libro cambia de manos, cada vez que alguien desliza la mirada por sus páginas, su espíritu crece y se hace fuerte.

Well, this is a story about books. About books? About accursed books, about a man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of anovel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind. You talk like the jacket blurb of a Victorian novel, Daniel. That's probably because I work in a bookshop and I've seen too many. But this is a true story.

He was a very private person, and sometimes it seemed to me that he was no longer interested in the world or in other people... I got the feeling that Julián was living in the past, locked in his memories. Julián lived within himself, for his books and inside them - a comfortable prison of his own design. You say this as if you envied him. There are worse prisons than words.

I leafed through the pages, inhaling the enchanted scent of promise that comes with all new books, and stopped to read the start of a sentence that caught my eye.

In my schoolboy reveries, we were always two fugitives riding on the spine of a book, eager to escape into worlds of fiction and secondhand dreams.

As I walked, I ran my fingers along the spines of hundreds of books. I let myself be imbued with the smell, with the light that filtered through the cracks or from the glass lanterns embedded in the wooden structure, floating among mirrors and shadows.

El nivel de barbarie de una sociedad se mide por la distancia que intenta poner entre las mujeres y los libros.

This place is a mystery. A sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it & the soul of those who read it & lived it & dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down it's pages, it's spirit grows & strengthens. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands, a new spirit...

Cada vez que un libro cambia de manos, cada vez que alguien desliza la mirada por sus páginas, su espíritu crece y se hace fuerte. (Sempere)

Me crié entre libros, haciendo amigos invisibles en páginas que se deshacían en polvo y cuyo olor aún conservo en las manos

De libros malditos, del hombre que los escribió, de un personaje que se escapó de las páginas de una novela para quemarla, de una traición y de una amistad perdida. Es una historia de amor, de odio y de los sueños que viven en la sombra del viento.

Write, he said. I'll write to you as soon as I get there, answered Julian. No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penelope.

Los libros son espejos: sólo se ve en ellos lo que uno ya lleva dentro —replicó Julián.

Cada libro, cada tomo que ves, tiene alma. El alma de quien lo escribió, y el alma de quienes lo leyeron y vivieron y soñaron con él. Cada vez que un libro cambia de manos, cada vez que alguien desliza la mirada por sus páginas, su espíritu crece y se hace fuerte.

Cada libro, cada tomo que ves, tiene alma. El alma de quien lo escribió, y el alma de quienes lo leyeron y soñaron con él. Cada vez que un libro cambia de manos, cada vez que alguien desliza por su páginas, su espíritu crece y se hace fuerte.

I looked up towards the immensity of the labyrinth. How does one choose a single book among so many? Isaac shrugged his shoulders. 'Some like to believe it's the book that chooses the person...destiny, in other words.