Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true.

I am to cover the philosophical side of the debate and so far my only thought is that reading keeps you from going gaga.

I have gone to [this bookshop] for years, always finding the one book I wanted - and then three more I hadn’t known I wanted.

I believe I am becoming pathetic. I'll go further, I believe that I am in love with a flower-growing, wood-carving quarryman/carpenter/pig farmer. In fact, I know I am. Perhaps tomorrow I will become entirely miserable at the thought that he doesn't love me back - may, even, care for Remy- but at this precise moment I am succumbing to euphoria. My head and stomach feel quite odd.

one year as his wife, and id have become one of those abject, quaking women who look at their husbands when someone asks them a question. I've always despised that type, but I see how it happens now

We read books, talked books, argued over books and became dearer and dearer to one another.

‎What a blight that woman is. Do you happen to know why? I lean toward a malignant fairy at her christening.