Quotes About Books

I once heard a writer say, 'It's easy to write a novel, you just slit your wrist and let it bleed on the pages.' She was right...Sophocles and Freud believed that we are defined by our fears. There's a lot of truth to that. When you share your greatest fears, your vulnerability, we bond in that honesty. We connect with each other and we don't feel so alone. And that's what books are really about. Connecting.

Because nobody but a reader ever became a writer.

Nobody but a reader becomes a writer.

Whether it's viewers of the show or readers of my columns and books, I'm consistently impressed with their wit, humor and insight. That goes for about 95 percent of the audience. The other five percent are why the 'Delete' option and restraining orders were invented.

My books are elegiac in the sense that they're odes to a nation that even I sometimes think may not exist anymore except in my memory and my imagination.

I'm not interested in creating a book that is read once and then placed on the shelf and forgotten. I am very happy when people have worn out my books, or that they're held together by Scotch tape.

There are all kinds of writers. The best writers write children's books.

Artists paint pictures. The best artists paint pictures for children's books.

Librarians lend people books from the library. The best librarians are children's book librarians.

With paper printed books, you have certain freedoms. You can acquire the book anonymously by paying cash, which is the way I always buy books. I never use a credit card. I don't identify to any database when I buy books. Amazon takes away that freedom.

The impulse to dream was slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing.

I grandi libri, come i grandi amici, devono essere condivisi.

the shelves on shelves of unread or half-read or read-and-forgotten books that had always been supposed to make such a difference and never had; the loathsome, gloating maw of the television set;

the shelves on shelves of unread or half-read or read-and-forgotten books that had always been supposed to make such a difference and never had

Too bad you got so bogged down in books. You've got the spirit of a warrior.

I figured I could read more than five pages tonight since I'd been deprived for the last couple of days. When I finished the fifteenth, I discovered I was three pages from the next chapter. Might as well end with a clean break. After I was done, I sighed and leaned back, feeling decadent and spent. Pure bliss. Books were a lot less messy than orgasms.

Look, don't get me wrong. I worship the ground this guy walks on. I'm excited to meet him tonight. I'm dying to meet him tonight. If he wanted to carry me off and make me his love slave, I'd do it, so long as I got advance copies of his books.

One day she's throwing a book at me. The next, we're making out behind the library.

Kill me, Doug. Just kill me now. Put me out of my misery." "Christ, Kincaid, what did you say to him?" murmured Doug. "Well," I told Doug, "I ripped on his fans and on how long it takes for his books to come out." Doug stared at me, his expectations exceeded. "Then I said—not knowing who he was—that I'd be Seth Mortensen's love slave in exchange for advanced copies of his books.

Oh God," I groaned, "Seth Mortensen just said 'fucking' out loud. The end of times are near.

Books inviting us to read, on the bookshelves stand. Piers for bridges that will lead, into Fairyland.

THE HILL HAS SOMETHING TO SAY but isn't talking. Instead the valley groans as the wind, amphoric, hoots its one bad note. Halfway up, we stop to peek through smudged pine: this is Europe and its green terraces. What's left to climb's inside us, : it's not all in the books (but maps don't lie). (For all we know the wind's inside us, pacing our lungs.)

Sometimes Matilda longed for a friend, someone like the kind, courageous people in her books.

Did you know, Matilda said suddenly, that the heart of a mouse beats at the rate of six hundred and fifty times a second ? I did not, Miss Honey said smiling. How absolutely fascinating. Where did you read that? In a book from the library, Matilda said. And that means it goes so fast that you can't even hear the separate beats. It must sound like a buzz. It must, Miss Honey said.