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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

Festina Lente (Hurry in slowly)