Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it's an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day.

The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.

I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time.

He lost himself in the words and images conjured in his mind and for a while forgot ... He found himself flying among stars and planets.

Those were the words she wanted to hear and she finally surrendered to the temptation of believing them.

The nurse knew that those who really love, love in silence, with deeds and not with words.

Man...heats up like a lightbulb: red hot in the twinkling of an eye and cold again in a flash. The female, on the other hand...heats up like an iron. Slowly, over a low heat, like tasty stew. But then, once she has heated up, there's no stopping her.