She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn’t taste bad, but she was still unhappy.
Ketakutan membunuh segalanya. Akal, hati dan juga fantasi
How loud small noises sound in a silence.
How could it be true that [he] was dead, and how would it feel to have him dead in her heart forever?
Her skin smelled of autumn and the wind.Don't Jacob...But it was too late. Clara didn't flinch as he pulled her close. He grabbed her hair, kissed her mouth, and he felt her heart beating as fast as h...
Cielo, l'amore era un tormento. Chiunque avesse affermato il contrario non doveva aver mai provato quel maledetto fremito nel petto.
Because by now Elinor had understood this, too: A longing for books was nothing compared with what you could feel for human beings. The books told you about that feeling. The books spoke of love, and...
Мы оба знаем, какое это счастье - нырнуть в книгу и какое-то время жить внутри неё, но расстаться со своей историей и попасть в наш мир - это, как видно, никому не приносит счастья.
Forget them, or the loss of them all will drive you mad. But his heart simply did not obey. Memories, so sweet and so bitter … they had both nourished and devoured him for so many years. Until a time...
Writing stories is a kind of magic, too.
Whenever she wanted to escape her own thoughts, she went to books for help.
When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer.
What was a slap for ten pages of escapism, ten pages far from everything that made him unhappy, ten pages of real life instead of the monotony that other people called the real world?
Weren’t all books ultimately related? After all, the same letters filled them, just arranged in a different order. Which meant that, in a certain way, every book was contained in every other!
Sai bene come finiscono gli eroi. Non hanno né mogli né figli, e non diventano vecchi.
Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness – and love. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn’t ask anything in return, they never went away, nev...
Oh yes, he was an idiot. He’d always been frightened by how much he needed her. And now it was too late.
Nobody loves only once.
Maybe people don’t see the cruelty in your world right away, it’s better hidden, but it’s there all the same.
Lì i libri erano ammassati dappertutto. Non erano solo sugli scaffali come nelle altre case, no: da loro erano accatastati sotto i tavoli, sulle sedie, negli angoli più remoti. Ce n'erano in cucina e...