Light griefs are loquacious, but the great are dumb.

Men are more interesting in books than they are in real life.

Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad books.

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.

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

I don’t know whether to feel flattered or hunted.

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