I prefer you like this, when you're in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.

Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.

Resentment slowly poisoned my blood and I laughed at myself and my absurd hopes.

Nobody had noticed, nobody had paid attention, but, as usual, the essential part of the matter had been settled before the story had begun, and by then it was too late.

Nothing is fair. The most one can hope is for things to be logical. Justice is a rare illness in a world that is otherwise a picture of health.

Sometimes, in difficult circumstances, one can confuse compassion with love.

It's up to you how you waste your time and money. I'm staying here to read: life's too short.