he looked around at the books on the walls, at their dark, worn spines, and he seemed to hear a strange, distant murmur coming from them. each of the closed books was a door, and behind it stirred shadows, voices, sounds, heading toward him from a deep, dark place.

You’ve just mentioned the price that has to be paid…Pride, freedom…Knowledge. Whether at the beginning or at the end, you have to pay for everything. Even courage, don’t you think? And don’t you think a lot of courage is needed to fight God?

Actually loneliness has a kind of fascination; it's a state of egotistical, inner grace that you can achieve only by standing guard on old, forgotten roads that no one travels anymore.

The world is full of banks and rivers running between them, of men and women crossing bridges and fords, unaware of the consequences, not looking back or beneath their feet, and with no loose change for the boatman.

Never trust a man who reads only one book.

...the problem with words is that once spoken, they cannot find their way back to the speaker alone.

One is never alone with a book nearby, don't you agree? Every page reminds us of a day that has passed and makes us relive the emotions that filled it. Happy hours underlined in red pencil, dark ones in black.