It's the same in real life: Notorious murderers get off scot-free and live happily all their lives, while good people die - sometimes the very best people. That's the way of the world.

-You forgot something important! -What? -It's under my sweater! -WHAT?! -Me!

Weren’t all books ultimately related? After all, the same letters filled them, just arranged in a different order. Which meant that, in a certain way, every book was contained in every other!

Where did the love come from? What was it made of?

Sometimes it's a good thing we don't remember things half as well as books do.

Nothing is more frightening than a fear you cannot name.

Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?