“Never apologize for your reading tastes.”

“Rosenberg's First Law of Reading: never apologize for your reading tastes.”

“From that moment on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again. ”

“Chances are good that if you walked away from your house after the real estate market collapsed, the Cavs now own it.”

“From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood.”

“From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood. There was poetry for quiet companionship. There was adventure when she tired of quiet hours. There would be love stories when she came into adolescence and when she wanted to feel a closeness to someone she could read a biography. On that day when she first knew she could read, she made a vow to read one book a day as long as she lived.”

“God In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned!His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls.The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled catTo him. On fragments of an old shrunk power,On shy and maimed, on women wrung awry,He lay, a bullying hulk, to crush them more.But when one, fearless, turned and clawed like bronze,Cringing was easy to blunt these stern paws,And he would weigh the heavier on those after.Who rests in God's mean flattery now? Your wealthIs but his cunning to make death more hard.Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking.And he has made the market for your beautyToo poor to buy, although you die to sell.Only that he has never heard of sleep;And when the cats come out the rats are sly.Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawnBut he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots,And in the morning some pale wonder ceases.Things are not strange and strange things are forgetful.Ah! if the day were arid, somehow lostOut of us, but it is as hair of us,And only in the hush no wind stirs it.And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes,And restlessness still shadows the lost ways.The fingers shut on voices that pass through,Where blind farewells are taken easily ....Ah! this miasma of a rotting God!”