Quotes About Books

Writing children's books all started out as a way for me to give back and make a difference.

Experience maketh an artist, not books or academics.

I would say one of my favorite books is 'Blood Brothers,' a documentary about Malcolm X.

There are loads of novels that I really love, like Haruki Murakami's books, and when I read them, I do think about how they would work as an anime. But I do believe that those are great books because they work best as novels, or great manga work best in that form.

If there is on earth a house with many mansions, it is the house of words.

Books are my art. The movie is someone else's art. But it's great marketing for books.

She lifted the small stack of books from their wrappings, stroking the soft leather cover of the top one with a forefinger that trembled with delight. Jenny loved books with the same passion her brother reserved for horses.

Of course I loved book more than people.

She stood with her nose up, sniffing delightedly. It was the delicious mildewy fragrance of old books. Hundreds of them, she saw, looking round the room. Books were lined up on shelves on all four walls, stacked on the floor, and piled on the desk, old books in leather covers mostly, although some of the ones on the floor had newer looking colored jackets.

After this, Boy became very curious about the mansion where the clothes and the food came from. He made me describe everything. Then he asked Good Thing 'Are there books in this mansion, too?' 'And pictures and jewels,' Good Thing said through me. 'What does Master wish me to fetch? There is a golden harp, a musical box like a bird, a—' 'Just books,' said Boy. 'I need to learn. I'm still so ignorant.

You've rotted your mind with reading books.

There's an enormous library, which boasts a copy of every book in the world — and many more from other worlds as well.

Books are borrowed minds, and because they capture the soul of a people, they explore and celebrate all it means to be human.

Sophie Hodorowicz Knab, Polish Customs, Traditions, and Folklore (New York: Hippocrene Books, 1996), p. 259.   people

For those of us with a bookish bent, reading is a reflexive response to everything. This is how we deal with the world and anything that comes our way. We have always known that there is a book for every occasion and every obsession. When in doubt, we are always looking things up.

Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic. As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head.

Of course I loved books more than people. Of course I valued Jane Eyre over the anonymous stranger...Of course all of Shakespeare was worth more than a human life.

What better place to kill time than a library? And for me, what better way to get to know someone than through her choice and treatment of books?

And sometimes then he sat with us for an hour or so, sharing our limbo, listening while I read. Books from any shelf, opened at any page, in which I would start and finish anywhere, mid-sentence sometimes. Wuthering Heights ran into Emma, which gave way to The Eustace Diamonds, which faded into Hard Times, which ceded to The Woman in White. Fragments. It didn't matter. Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words, on the other hand, were a lifeline.

Reading had never let me down before. It had always been the one sure thing.

In the background is the hiss of the gas heater; we hear the sound without hearing it for, side by side, together and miles apart, we are deep in our books.

For at eight o'clock the world came to an end. It was reading time. The hours between eight in the evening and one or two in the morning have always been my magic hours. Against the blue candlewick bedspread the white pages of my open book, illuminated by a circle of lamplight, were the gateway to another world.

on those days when he could not spend half an hour in the company of a good book, he felt deprived.

Though my appetite for food grew frail, my hunger for books was constant.