Books worth reading are worth re-reading.

A large, still book is a piece of quietness, succulent and nourishing in a noisy world, which I approach and imbibe with "a sort of greedy enjoyment," as Marcel Proust said of those rooms of his old home whose air was "saturated with the bouquet of silence."

The poor are the only consistent altruists; they sell all they have and give it to the rich.

People who want to be amused have lost the art of living.

The possession of a great many things, even the best of things, tends to blind one to the real value of anything.

Book-love, I say again, lasts throughout life, it never flags or fails, but, like Beauty itself, is a joy forever.

History proves there is no better advertisement for a book than to condemn it for obscenity.