Elizabeth Kostova Quotes

And how could anyone consent to give up the smell of open books, old or new?

I think it's important to recognise that 'The Da Vinci Code' opened up a vast new audience for a general readership interested in historical detective stories and research into history.

Bulgarians eat tarator every single day in summer. They think of it as salad although we'd call it a soup. You can make it as thick or thin as you like depending on how much water you add. It's very practical in summer because yogurt cools the body faster than water, but the water hydrates you.

The heart does not go backward. Only the mind.

As you know, human history is full of evil deeds, and maybe we ought to think of them with tears, not fascination.

It was good to walk into a library again; it smelled like home.

It touched me to be trusted with something terrible.

What comes to your mind when you think of the word Transylvania, if you ponder it at all? What comes to my mind are mountains of savage beauty, ancient castles, werewolves, and witches - a land of magical obscurity. How, in short, am I to believe I will still be in Europe, on entering such a realm? I shall let you know if it's Europe or fairyland, when I get there. First, Snagov - I set out tomorrow.

In the end, I always act from the heart, even if I also value reason and tradition. I wish I could explain why, but I don't know.

I wondered why she craved this knowledge and found myself remembering that she was, after all, an anthropologist.

Never before had I known the sudden quiver of understanding that travels from word to brain to heart, the way a new language can move, coil, swim into life under the eyes, the almost savage leap of comprehension, the instantaneous, joyful release of meaning, the way the words shed their printed bodies in a flash of heat and light.

I love to cook and I've cooked a lot of Bulgarian food over the years.

I've read there is no such thing as a single tear, that old poetic trope. And perhaps there isn't, since hers was simply a companion to my own.

Festina Lente (Hurry in slowly)

Boys mystified me, although I dreamed vaguely of men.

It's funny; in this era of e-mail and voice mail and all those things that even I did not grow up with, a plain old paper letter takes on amazing intimacy.

I was filled with angst in college, that I struggled with the question of my future, the meaning of my life - spoiled sheltered rich girl collides with great books and is devastated by her own banality.

The problem is simply finding the right person. Ask Plato. Just make sure she finishes your thoughts and you finish hers. That's all you need.

There is nothing harder, at moments, than talking to someone who has all the power of silence.

My publishers are wonderful because they have let me write what I wanted to. They're wise enough to know that, with any author who's not simply writing formulas - who's trying to create something new - pressuring them to do something for market purposes almost always backfires. I can't imagine working under those circumstances, actually.

When you handle books all day long, every new one is a friend and a temptation.

It's a shame for women's history to be all about men--first boys, then other boys, then men men men. It reminds me of the way our school history textbooks were all about wars and elections, one war after another, with the dull periods of peace skimmed over whenever they occurred. (Our teachers deplored this and added extra units about social history and protest movements, but that was still the message of the books.)

The very worst impulses of humankind can survive generations, centuries, even millennia. And the best of our individual efforts can die with us at the end of a single lifetime.

You are a total stranger and you want to take my library book.

I've noticed Dracula was often as practical a fellow as he was a nasty one.

I've always been interested in foreign relations. It's my belief that study of history should be our preparation for understanding the present rather than an escape from it.

He can't really love anyone, you know, and in the end such people are always alone, no matter how much other people once loved them.

Every writer hopes his or her book will be its own thing.

The thing that most haunted me that day, however...was the fact that these things had - apparently - actually occurred...For all his attention to my historical education, my father had neglected to tell me this: history's terrible moments were real. I understand now, decades later, that he could never have told me. Only history itself can convince you of such a truth. And once you've seen that truth - really seen it - you can't look away.

If there is any good in life, in history, in my own past, I invoke it now. I invoke it with all the passion with which I have lived.

As a historian, I have learned that, in fact, not everyone who reaches back into history can survive it. And it is not only reaching back that endangers us; sometimes history itself reaches inexorably forward for us with its shadowy claws.

These atheist cultures were certainly diligent in preserving the relics of their saints.

I wasn't brought up to be dazzled by money or fame.

Sometimes people damage paintings or sculpture because they love it. They throw their arms around a statue in a fit of hysterical passion and it falls over.

In those days, I still thoroughly enjoyed the romance I called "by myself"; I didn't know yet how it gets lonely, picks up a sharp edge later on that ruins a day now and then-- ruins more than that, if you're not careful.

For me, Dracula has always been associated with travel and beautiful historical places.

For the first time, I had been struck by the excitement of the traveler who looks history in her subtle face.

It was not the brutality of what occurred next that changed my mind and brought home to me the full meaning of fear. It was the brilliance of it.

My guess is that he remembers some of me, some of us together, and the rest rolled off him like topsoil in a flash flood.

I keep telling myself I should try very hard to write a novel of about 210 pages... I don't seem to be capable of it, but I keep hoping it will happen.

Then you must say to her, 'Madame, I observe that your heart is broken. Allow me to repair it for you.

He brought his great hand to rest on an early edition of Bram Stoker's novel and smiled, but said nothing. Then he moved quietly away into another section.

No book that is written for an external purpose is going to be a passionately felt book for the writer or the reader. I don't see the point in doing that.

...History it seemed could be something entirely different a splash of blood whose agony didn't fade overnight or over centuries.

We Gypsies know that where Jews are killed, Gypsies are always murthered too. And then a lot of other people, usually.

...what will we someday do, I always wonder, without the pleasures of turning through books and stumbling on things we never meant to find?

Today I will go to wait for her again, because I cannot help it, because my whole being seems now to be bound up in the being of one so different from myself and yet so exquisitely familiar that I can scarely understand what has happened.

It was strange, I reflected.. that even in the weirdest circumstances, the most troubling episodes of one's life, the greatest divides from home and familiarity, there were these moments of undeniable joy.