Turn all the mirrors to the wall.
That. I have always been a reader; I have read at every stage of my life,
My job is not to sell the books - my father does that - but to them. Every so often I take out a volume and read a page or two. After all, reading is looking after in a manner of speaking. Though the...
My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is ro...
I’m a storyteller. I am a biographer.
It’s what my mother would say. She thinks a weightless story is better than one that’s too heavy. So. My story is a heavy one.
I reached for the prescription. In a vigorous scrawl, he inked: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. Take ten pages, twice a day, till end of course.
I am human. Like all humans, I do not remember my birth. By the time we wake up to ourselves, we are little children, and our advent is something that happened an eternity ago, at the beginning of tim...
He knows what reading is. How it takes you.
He couldn’t go on. He went on.
As one tends to the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices...
And sometimes then he sat with us for an hour or so, sharing our limbo, listening while I read. Books from any shelf, opened at any page, in which I would start and finish anywhere, mid-sentence somet...
You leave the previous book with idea's and themes - characters even - caught in the fibers of your clothing - and when you open a new book, they are still with you.
Remembered the words of the man in the brown suit, and how they had echoed around the rafters of my rooms under the eaves. Yet the man in the brown suit was a figment of her imagination. I should have...
Well, then, the cressman concluded sagely, just ’cause a thing’s impossible don’t mean it can’t happen.
Reading had never let me down before. It had always been the one sure thing.
Pigs were funny creatures. You could almost think they were human the way they looked at you sometimes. Or was the pig remembering something? Yes, she realized, that was it. The pig looked exactly as...
Moments came back to him when he had behaved less honorably than he wished. He remembered instances of neglect and ingratitude. He felt the pang of remorse and resolved not to do the same again.
Life is compost. You think that a strange thing to say, but it's true. All my life and all my experience, the events that have befallen me, the people I have known, all my memories, dreams, fantasies,...
I’m sorry, I heard her say. One gets so used to one’s own horrors, one forgets how they must seem to other people.