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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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