Best 4184 quotes in «books quotes» category

We read to learn.

we're just paper on a shelf, in the end

We sat in his library. amidst his beloved books, whose company I knew he would rather seek than that of most of his acquaintances, did they but know it.

Wer niemals ganze Nachmittage lang mit glühenden Ohren und verstrubbeltem Haar über einem Buch saß und las und las und die Welt um sich her vergaß, nicht mehr merkte, daß er hungrig wurde oder fror - Wer niemals heimlich beim Schein einer Taschenlampe unter der Bettdecke gelesen hat, weil Vater oder Mutter oder sonst irgendeine besorgte Person einem das Licht ausknipste mit der gutgemeinten Begründung, man müsse jetzt schlafen, da man doch morgen so früh aus den Federn sollte - Wer niemals offen oder im geheimen bitterliche Tränen vergossen hat, weil eine wunderbare Geschichte zu Ende ging und man Abschied nehmen mußte von den Gestalten, mit denen man gemeinsam so viele Abenteuer erlebt hatte, die man liebte und bewunderte, um die man gebangt und für die man gehofft hatte, und ohne deren Gesellschaft einem das Leben leer und sinnlos schien - Wer nichts von alledem aus eigener Erfahrung kennt, nun, der wird wahrscheinlich nicht begreifen können, was Bastian jetzt tat.

We spend our lives waiting for our book and it never comes.

We sometimes reveal how ignorant or bored we were when we read a book by giving it 5-stars.

We spend great sum of money to buy good books, so that we can satisfy our pleasure of reading.

We told each other what movies we were currently watching and what books we were reading.

We" - this "we" is everyone who has never experienced anything like what they went through - don't understand. We don't get it. We truly can't imagine what it was like. We can't imagine how dreadful, how terrifying war is; and how normal it becomes. Can't understand, can't imagine. That's what every soldier, and every journalist and aid worker and independent observer who has put in time under fire, and had the luck to elude the death that struck down others nearby, stubbornly feels. And they are right.

We understood that Genesis wasn't the first story but, rather, that the creation of Genesis was. I'd go into the classroom prepared to discuss whatever book or poem or passage was on that day's agenda, and sometimes, against all odds, those discussions were spirited and engaging, and they told me everything I needed to know about my future as a teacher: I had none. It was books I was drawn to--the smell of them, the feel of them, the way they invaded and captured me--not talking about books. I enrolled in library school and got a part-time job as a used-book store, taking orders over the phone.

We travel to ancient times by reading history books.

We want the author to give us answers when all he can do is give us desires.

We were not meant to read stories anymore. We were too busy writing our own.

We were the only customers downstairs in the shop and there were no windows and only two dim bulbs, without shades. There was a pleasant soporific smell, as though the books had stolen most of the air.

We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces on the edges of print.

We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

We write to strengthen our soul and the spirit of other souls.

We will read books together inside the blanket and stay warm. And keep writing poetry in our respective journals. Time will fly but we will still remain inside the blanket forever.

We will speak for the books." ... "Like the Lorax?" "The Lorax speaks for the trees," I remind her. "Books are made out of paper. Paper is made out of trees." "What about e-books?" "We can speak for them too." "Audiobooks?" "Audiobooks speak for themselves." She grins. "Get it?

We write, not because we claim to know more than others, but perhaps because we want to know more than others. Writers are explorers

What about damp? What about flooding? Wouldn't it make sense to have a little lawn or garden as a sort of buffer zone between the house and the water? But then it wouldn't be Venice, said Connie's voice in my head. Then it would be Staines.

What an astonishing thing a book is. It's a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic." [Cosmos, Part 11: The Persistence of Memory (1980)]

What a man reads pours massive ingredients into his mental factory and the fabric of his life is built from those ingredients.

What an author doesn't know could fill a book.

What a glut of books! Who can read them?

What are these things that this houses, Eva?" Rovender picked up a crumbling tome. He handed it to her. "These are books," Eva said as the yellowed bits of paper flaked away in her hands to rest on the floor. "It's what humans used to put all of their writing in long ago.

What begins at the water shall end there, and what ends there shall once more begin. Words are a gift to the dead and a warning to the living.

What a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me! I went in and found the table laden with books. I looked in and sniffed them all. I could not resist carrying this one off and broaching it. I think I could happily live here and read forever.

What books can you read to learn about this part of your life? What people do you need to confide in to grow deeper? What things do you need to stop doing in order to grow? What things do you need to start doing?

What can I say? I have a thing for women who carry heavy books and know how to use them

What can I say Rango? What can I do to prove to you that I belong to you?

What does it mean?” Flynn turns to gaze at me, eyes finally meeting mine. I find myself smiling because I know exactly what it means. “It means the clouds are clearing on Avon.

What does reading mean to me? For me it is like breathing, so vital, so basal, a necessity I cannot live without. Reading is my comfort and my retreat. Without reading I can exist, but I cannot thrive.

What do women want?" Sigmund Freud cried. Books and cats are a good start.

Whatever is true about your heart will show up in your actions.

Whatever you are physically, male or female, strong or weak, ill or healthy - all those things matter less than what your heart contains. If you have the soul of a warrior, you are a warrior. Whatever the color, the shape, the design of the shade that conceals it, the flame inside the lamp remains the same. YOU are the flame. That's what I believe.

Whatever you call me, my parents encouraged me to go to college and become a book lover, and to trust that I could do nearly anything if I could find the right book at the library. It was true; books had saved me in my home remodeling projects, but they fell short in teaching me how to trust my instincts, and how to stop thinking with my educated brain and more with my kneecaps and butt cheeks.

What had happened to the body I held in my arms that night last spring?

What if we just all read things, and talked about them, and sometimes we liked them and sometimes we didn’t and most of the time we didn’t agree at all, and then we all went and read more things, and repeated the dance all over again?

What he knew, he knew from books, and books lied, they made things prettier.

What if this is a horrible mistake?" I croaked. "Oh, it'll be horrible fine, just a bunch of pretentious rich people with shelves of books they've never read.

[W]hat I like best is staying home and reading. Being rich is not about how many homes you own. It’s the freedom to pick up any book you want without looking at the price and wondering whether you can afford it.

What is a book? Is it the binding, the ink, the pages, or the sum of the words contained?

What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore, it knows it’s not foolin’ a soul.

What is a course of history or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen? Will you be a reader, a student merely, or a seer? Read your fate, see what is before you, and walk on into futurity.

What is more natural than that a solidity, a complicity, a bond should be established between Reader and Reader, thanks to the book? You can leave the bookshop content, you, a man who thought that the period where you could still expect something from life had ended. You are bearing with you two different expectations, and both promise days of pleasant hopes; the expectation contained in the book - of a reading experience you are impatient to resume - and the expectation contained in that telephone number - of hearing again the vibrations, a times treble and at times smoldering, of that voice, when it will answer your first phone call in a while, in fact tomorrow, with the fragile pretext of the book, to ask her if she likes it or not, to tell her how many pages you have read or not read, to suggest to her that you meet again...

What is my strength, that I should hope? Is my strength the strength of stone? Or is my flesh of brass? Is not my help in me.

What is so addictive about fiction is that it is the one reliable place in which we can apprehend and participate in - fully understand - the inward world of another person.

What is so refreshing like reading?

What is the point of all these books when I learn best by reading your body?