“Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)”
“The house was a vast labyrinth of books. Volumes were stacked from floor to ceiling on every wall, dark, crackling, redolent of leather bindings, smooth to the touch, with their gold titles and translucent gilt-edged pages and delicate typography.”
“I just love the smell of an old book store and the feel of the crisp pages along my fingertips.”
“My life's an open book. Some of the pages are a little ripped, but it's open.”
“I wanted to pull down a book, open it proper, and gobble up page after page”
“I'm an open book. But some of the pages are stuck together.”