“You sought the power of my book . . . But that power is mine . . . mine alone . . . carelessly you a lesser entity, toyed with it . . . but it is mine . . . just as the book was mine . . . and now you are mine . . . and I . . . I am hungry.”

“You're mine, and mine alone, baby. Just for my eyes, just for my touch and just for my pleasure. Just mine. Do you understand me?”

“Are you mine?”Yes.“Are you mine?”Yes.“Are you mine?”No.“No?”No. I loved being yours. But now I’m mine, which is all I ever was, in the end.”

“You are mine, Madison. You’ve always been mine. You just didn’t know it and neither did I, but you’re mine, sweetheart, all mine and I’m never going to let you go.”

“You are mine, Aisling. You are mine today, tomorrow and five hundred years from now. You will always be mine. I do not give up my treasures, kincsem. You would do well to remember that.”

“All these are readers, and their gestures, their craft, the pleasure, the responsibility and the power they derive from reading, are common with mine. I am not alone.”