“You asked me where I generally lived. In my workshop [i.e. in his study] in the mornings and always in the library in the evening. Books are companions even if you don’t open them.”

“Come indoors then, and open the books on your library shelves. For you have a library and a good one. A working library, a living library; a library where nothing is chained down and nothing is locked up; a library where the songs of the singers rise naturally from the lives of the livers.”

“In our old age my beloved companion said to me quietly one evening, "You have always given me wings to fly, and I have loved you for it.”

“All those invisible presences ... began to transform themselves into companions that were more or less volatile, more or less intense, companions that I'd have to learn to live with. They invaded my mind when I was alone, in the silent evenings toiling away in the workshop between patterns and bastings, when I went to bed or in the gloom of the living room ...”

“Nash says you bartend, right?”My eyes open to his. He’s staring down at me, so close I can see the vague line where black pupil stops and nearly-black iris begins. Those eyes are amazing!I see his eyebrows rise, prompting me.“Pardon?” I ask.“Nothing. I don’t even think it matters. If you’re this adorably sexy all the time, no one will care how fast you get them their drinks.”

“I heard his library burned down and both books were destroyed --and one of them hadn't even been colored in yet.”