“But as my father told him, and as anyone who reads regularly might agree, the only thing that has to be similar from night to night is the act of turning pages. Everything else changed as soon as we picked up a new book, plunging deep into a new landscape with unfamiliar faces”

“As I sat alone on another summer night, I realized something had to change. I had to get out there and make new friends who didn't cling to each other so much that they didn't let anyone else in. I needed someone new in my life. Anyone new and willing to be a friend for awhile or a long while.”

“This place is a mystery. A sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it & the soul of those who read it & lived it & dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down it's pages, it's spirit grows & strengthens. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands, a new spirit...”

“If your book doesn't keep you up nights when you are writing it, it won't keep anyone up nights reading it.”

“[about a book lent by a crush] Last night I read into the wee small hours. Fell asleep with my face in the book, my nose pressed up against the print. Could smell Sean on the pages, the lingering odours from his sportsbag. Man scent, liniment, damp earth.”

“On Friday night, I was reading my new book, but my brain got tired, so I decided to watch some television instead.”