Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil.
The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It’s easy to forget that when you’re indoors, protected by light and solid walls.
If you keep pretending you’re in that book, it will make you not want to live in the life you’re in.
How ridiculous that water ran out of your eyes when your heart hurt. Tragic heroines in books tended to be amazingly beautiful. Not a word about swollen eyes or a red nose. “Crying always gives me a red nose,” thought Elinor. “I expect that’s why I’ll never be in any book.
Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.
There was another reason [she] took her books whenever they went away. They were her home when she was somewhere strange. They were familiar voices, friends that never quarreled with her, clever, powerful friends — daring and knowledgeable, tried and tested adventurers who had traveled far and wide. Her books cheered her up when she was sad and kept her from being bored.
Isn’t it odd how much fatter a book gets when you’ve read it several times?” Mo had said…”As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells…and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower…both strange and familiar.
Stories never really end…even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don’t end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page.