“Life is a book and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read.”

“Will looked down at himself, at the knife at his feet, and remembered the knife he hadburied at the base of the tree on the Shrewsbury-Welshpool road, stained with his blood andJem’s. “All my life, since I came to the Institute, you were the mirror of my soul. I saw thegood in me in you. In your eyes alone I found grace. When you are gone from me, who willsee me like that?”There was a silence then. Jem stood as still as a statue. With his gaze Will searched for,and found, the parabatai rune on Jem’s shoulder; like his own, it had faded to a pale white.At last Jem spoke. The cool remoteness had left his voice. Will breathed in hard,remembering how much that voice had shaped the years of his growing up, its steadykindness a lighthouse beacon in the dark. “Have faith in yourself. You can be your ownmirror.”“That words have the power to changeus. Your words have changed me, Tess; they have made me a better man than I would havebeen otherwise. Life is a book, and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read. I wouldread them together with you, as many as I can, before I die—”

“Excellent. I've been told I have a lovely, melodic reading voice." He flipped the book open to the front page, where the title was printed in ornate script. Across from it was a long dedication, the ink faded now and barely legible, though Clary could make out the signature: With hope at last, William Herondale.”

“Books are for reading, not for turning oneself into livestock.”

“Life was an uncertain thing, and there were some moments one wished to remember, to imprint upon one's mind that the memory might be taken out later, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book, and admired and recollected anew. - Sophie and Gideon Lightwood”

“You know that feeling,” she said, “when you are reading a book, and you know that it is going to be a tragedy; you can feel the cold and darkness coming, see the net drawing tight around the characters who live and breathe on the pages. But you are tied to the story as if being dragged behind a carriage and you cannot let go or turn the course aside.”

“He opened his mouth. The words were there. He was about to say them when a jolt of terror went through him, the terror of someone who, wandering in a mist, pauses only to realise that they have stopped inches from the edge of a gaping abyss. The way she was looking at him - she could read what was in his eyes, he realised. It must have been written plainly there, like words on the page of a book. There had been no time, no chance, to hide it.“Will,” she whispered. “Say something, Will.”But there was nothing to say. There was only emptiness, as there had been before her. As there would always be.'I have lost everything', Will thought. 'Everything.”