Best 4184 quotes in «books quotes» category

Henry did not want to be fixed, was somehow convinced that the fix would be a lie, something that would lessen him.

He passed his hands over some of the fine embossed bindings as he thought, I am a book also, words and thoughts and stories held together by flesh. We open and close ourselves to the world. We are read by others or put away by them. We wait to be seen, sitting quietly on shelves for someone to bother having a look inside us.

He pointed the scepter around the library and had an instant input of all of the books that were there into his brain, as if he had read them all at once.

He reached into the bag and drew out an odd array of manga, ripped paperbacks of books both classic and modern, and a small stack of crumpled magazines. "See, I even brought some things to read aloud. I wasn't sure what you'd like, so there's a bit of everything.

Her concept of paradise was something more immediate: a book and a blanket beneath a tree, where she might read in peace.

Here in the realm of books she’s self-assured. She has some of the control she doesn’t have anywhere else.

Here I was, seeing you almost every week, and talking with you, and knowing that the only one in your heart was Kizuki. It hurt. It really hurt. And I think that's why I slept with girls I didn't know.

Here, you carry these. I may need my hands free. Why the hell are we taking ‘The Dream of the Red Chamber?’ Light reading, if we get stuck on the subway? No, in case we get stopped by some of Qing Song’s minions who can’t read Chinese. Oh. Right. Hey, that’s not a bad thought. Though if we’re going to be throwing them away anyhow, why not take ‘The Investiture of the Gods’... Because I like ‘The Investiture of the Gods’ and I don’t like ‘The Dream of the Red Chamber’.

....her life would be a giddy crossword, working down from some clues and across from others.

Her hands moved up his arms and tried to ignore the tingling zapping her skin like the metal edges of the Operation game.

Her presence had awakened in him a man suddenly whipped by his earlier ideals, whose lost manhood wanted to assert itself in action.

Her tragedy, if she had one, was to be as normal and average as any child ever born.

Her seven-year-old self had decided that stealing books was morally bankrupt, but since the books hadn’t actually left the library—they’d merely been relocated—it wasn’t technically stealing. Echo looked around at her sea of tomes, and a single word came to mind: Tsundoku. It was the Japanese word for letting books pile up without reading them all.

He rolled his eyes. "Fiction lies for the truth.

Her Uncle Jaime felt that people never read what did not interest them and that if it interested them that meant they were sufficiently mature to read it.

He says he knows someone isn't from the same race as he when that person looks at his library and asks, 'Have you read all of these?' A true book lover knows that, no, he hasn't read them all. It's about the process, it's about when the right reference comes up, you have the right book to go to; it's about never being without something to occupy your eyes and mind.

He saw a square room furnished as a library. The entire section of the walls which he could spy was covered from floor to ceiling with books. There were volumes of every size, every shape, every colour. There were long, narrow books that held themselves like grenadiers at stiff attention. There were short, fat books that stood solidly like aldermen who were going to make speeches and were ashamed but not frightened. There were mediocre books bearing themselves with the carelessness of folk who are never looked at and have consequently no shyness. There were solemn books that seemed to be feeling for their spectacles; and there were tattered, important books that had got dirty because they took snuff, and were tattered because they had been crossed in love and had never married afterwards. There were prim, ancient tomes that were certainly ashamed of their heroines and utterly unable to obtain a divorce from the hussies; and there were lean, rakish volumes that leaned carelessly, or perhaps it was with studied elegance, against their neighbours, murmuring in affected tones, "All heroines are charming to us.

He saw my confusion and led me a slow, stately march to the library. There were shelves all the way around the room, and every shelf was crowed with books. I had not thought so many books existed.[...] There was a desk, several big leather chairs, a wooden floor covered with faded rugs, and in front of the fireplace a sofa with soft pillows. The shelves stopped several feet short of the ceiling, leaving room for a row of busts of what I imagined must be famous gentlemen. Lamps cast little pools light in the room, and the sound and smell of the fire reminded me of the fires the Kikuyu would make outside theirs huts when they roasted goats.

He sat there studiously bent over his work (Bill saw him), which lay in a slant of crisp white winterlight, his face sober and absorbed, knowing that to be a librarian was to come as close as any human being can to sitting in the peak-seat of eternity’s engine.

Her zaman başka bir savaş çıkar, Robert. Kökleri hiçbir zaman tamamen kazınmaz. Savaşları ne alevlendirir? Güç arzusu, insan doğasının belkemiği. Şiddet tehdidi, şiddet korkusu ya da şiddetin kendisi bu dehşet verici arzunun aracıdır. Güç arzusunu yatak odalarında, mutfaklarda, fabrikalarda, sendikalarda ve devletlerin sınırlarında görebilirsin. Bunu iyi dinle ve aklına yaz. Ulus-devlet insan doğasının şişirilip devasa boyutlara getirilmiş halidir, o kadar. İşte bu yüzden, uluslar kanunları şiddetle yazılmış birimlerdir. Her zaman da öyleydiler, her zaman da öyle olacaklar. Savaş, Robert, insanlığın iki ebedi dostundan biridir.

He’s at the library, I think. Safe and sound in his world of books... Maybe he’ll write one someday.

He said that the principal function of music was to organize the details into harmonies that were intended to make us forget that there was randomness all around us. The same, he said, could be said for great books.

He’s as tense as I am, maybe even more so, but it’s so hard to reconcile that with the serenity of weightlessness. His faux-blond hair is floating out away from his head. He’s wearing a worn, much-mended, and too-large shirt his friend in town must’ve found for him to help him blend in. He looks nothing like the Romeo who dragged me off the base, nothing like the Cormac who threw himself between his own people and me. It’s like that guy’s gone, and I killed him.

He sits at the table and reads novels, old favorites of his, the words and plots and characters comforting and lived-in and unchanged.

He shall rule, whom they look not for that dwell upon the earth, and the fowls shall take their flight away together:

He that is slow to believe anything and everything is of great understanding, for belief in one false principle is the beginning of all unwisdom. Compton

He stopped moving among the shelves. She stopped as well and scanned the books around her. 'Such a glorious perfume, these old books.

He thinks of subtle, vast unbroken things I can only read about in books or see on screen.

He walked among the bookstore shelves, hearing Muzak in the air. There were rows of handsome covers, prosperous and assured. He felt a fine excitement, hefting a new book, fitting hand over sleek spine, seeing lines of type jitter past his thumb as he let the pages fall. He was a young man, shrewd in his fervors, who knew there were books he wanted to read and others he absolutely had to own, the ones that gesture in special ways, that have a rareness or daring, a charge of heat that stains the air around them.

He wandered off into the stacks, pulling a book here and there, looking at it, putting it back. Choosing books was serious business. You had to be careful. If you were a grownup you could have as many as you wanted, but kids could only take out three at a time. If you picked a dud, you were stuck with it.

Hetty was eating, rather than reading, large slabs of a very thin book of contemporary verse each page having a thick wodge of print, without capital letters, starting at the top and running nearly to the bottom. Her eyes were very close to the book and she frowned with concentration.

He wanted to tell her she'd have more room if she'd just get rid of her books, but he supposed that in her case, it would be like telling a mother she'd have more room if she threw out her children.

He was a far more voracious reader than me, but he made it a rule to never touch a book by any author who had not been dead at least 30 years. "That's the only kind of book I can trust," he said. "It's not that I don't believe in contemporary literature," he added, "but I don't want to waste valuable time reading a book that has not had the baptism of time. Life is too short.

He was like a book, where each chapter picks up pace until you can't put it down. That's when you know you've made a friend - when you want to read more of his story.

He who doesn't see the essence of books shall surely be ruled by those who find and value the real essence of books.

He who studies old books will always find in them something new, and he who reads new books will always find in them something old.

-Hija mía, eres joven, tienes toda la vida por delante. Lee. Olvida lo que te hayan dicho sobre los libros, y lee.

His eyes go wide while a gasp of wonder passes his lips. He turns his body fully toward us. His lips moving like a fish out of water, gasping for breath. He gives his head a shake and stutters out, “Mer—mermaids. There are fish with women’s bodies or—women with fish bodies sitting upon the rocks. I—I never knew...

His face is close to mine, his hand warm against my back through my shirt. Despite the smile on his lips, his gaze is so sad it feels like my heart is ripping in two, turning to ash as I look at him. He knows as well as I do that neither of us is leaving Avon alive if we touch down again. He’ll never see snow, and I’ll never teach him what skis are.

His books commingled democratically, united under the all-inclusive flag of Literature. Some were vertical, some horizontal, and some actually placed behind others. Mine were balkanized by nationality and subject matter.

His eyes move to my lips, and I know he’s thinking the same thing; I can feel it in the way the air charges between us. I can almost taste him half an inch away, can feel the way the tiny hairs on my skin lift and reach for him like plants seeking the sunlight.

His novel or book of poems, decent, adequate, arises not from an exercise of style or will, as the poor unfortunate believes, but as the result of an exercise of concealment. There must be many books, many lovely pines, to shield from hungry eyes the book that really matters, the wretched cave of our misfortune, the magic flower of winter!

Historical gap is created due to missing written records.

His reading suggested a man swimming in the sea among the wreckage of his ship, and trying to save his life by greedily clutching first at one spar and then at another.

His Highness was always confident in his statements, especially about what he viewed for the first time.

Historia to najcenniejszy skarb każdego narodu. Należy strzec jej z mądrą troską

History is an ocean that books help us to navigate.

Hojear libros es parte de la tradición de una librería —le dijo Florence—. Debes dejar que se queden y toquen los libros.

His voice had a faint trace of an accent she couldn't place - one that made her pretty sure he was no local kid infected the night before.

Holding a precious book meant to Mendel what an assignment with a woman might to another man. These moments were his platonic nights of love. Books had power over him; money never did. Great collectors, including the founder of a collection in Princeton University Library, tried in vain to recruit him as an adviser and buyer for their libraries—Jakob Mendel declined; no one could imagine him anywhere but in the Café Gluck. Thirty-three years ago, when his beard was still soft and black and he had ringlets over his forehead, he had come from the east to Vienna, a crook-backed lad, to study for the rabbinate, but he had soon abandoned Jehovah the harsh One God to give himself up to idolatry in the form of the brilliant, thousand-fold polytheism of books. That was when he had first found his way to the Café Gluck, and gradually it became his workplace, his headquarters, his post office, his world. Like an astronomer alone in his observatory, studying myriads of stars every night through the tiny round lens of the telescope, observing their mysterious courses, their wandering multitude as they are extinguished and then appear again, so Jakob Mendel looked through his glasses out from that rectangular table into the other universe of books, also eternally circling and being reborn in that world above our own.