The rest, with very little exaggeration, was books. Meant-to-be-picked-up books. Permanently-left-behind books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with books. But books, books. Tall cases lined three walls of the room, filled to and beyond capacity. The overflow had been piled in stacks on the floor. There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing.

Oh, this happiness is strong stuff.

It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world.

People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it.

Hell is the suffering of being unable to love.

But I was afraid of the questions (much more than the accusations) you might both put to me.

They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more. It's not so good, that way.