Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.

Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down, before they knew their endings.

Nighttime is different. Things are otherwise when the world is black. Insecurities and hurts, anxieties and fears grow teeth at night. p493

Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.

Cassandra always hid when she read, though she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn't shake the guilty suspicion that she was being lazy, that surrendering herself so completely to something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a tale of magic and mystery.

After all, it's the librarian's sworn purpose to bring books together with their one true reader.