I know there are people who don't read fiction at all, and I find it hard to understand how they can bear to be inside the same head all the time.

Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so.

What better way to get to know someone than through her choice and treatment of books?

My genius is not so frail a thing that it cowers from the dirty fingers of newspapernen.

There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner.

I don't pretend reality is the same for everyone.

Sometimes when you open the door to the past, what you confront is your destiny.