His writings have made me his friend.

After all, what's good enough for Austen ought to be good enough for anyone.

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.

Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad books.

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

Isola doesn't approve of small talk and believes in breaking the ice by stomping on it.

Friends, show me a man who hates himself, and I'll show you a man who hates his neighbours more! He'd have to – you wouldn't grant anyone else something you can't have for yourself – no love, no kindness, no respect!