“The book and I secret ourselvesBehind the paneled door.We merge our thoughts in retrospectOf ancient mystic lore.We spend a pleasant quiet hour,Nor know it passed us by...The easy chair, the shaded lamp,A well-loved book and I.”

“Books everywhere. On the shelves and on the small space above the rows of books and all along the floor and under chairs, books that I have read, books that I have not read.”

“It's not the error in the book, it's the thought that counts.”

“There was I, devouring books and yet allowing a man who had never read a book to walk me home for a bit of harmless fumbling on the front steps.”

“Love is Not AllLove is not all: it is not meat nor drinkNor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution’s power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would.”

“I think I've discovered the secret of life -- you just hang around until you get used to it.”

“So up I got in anger,And took a book I had,And put a ribbon on my hairTo please a passing lad.And, "One thing there's no getting by --I've been a wicked girl," said I;But if I can't be sorry, why,I might as well be glad!”