“If I were to live a thousand lives, I would want to make you mine in each one of them.”

“If I were to live a thousand years, I would belong to you for all of them. If we were to live a thousand lives, I would want to make you mine in each one.”

“Maybe we've lived a thousand lives before this one and in each of them we've found each other... I know I've spent each life before this one searching for you. Not someone like you but you, for your soul and mine must always come together.”

“...I would want to spend it with you. Even if we had thousands of nights, I would want to spend every single one of them with you.”

“Reed lifts his lips from mine, and looking into my eyes, he murmurs, “I want those thousand years with you, Evie, you have no idea how much I want them. I want a thousand years, and then I want a hundred thousand more.”

“When you open a book,” the sentimental library posters said, “anything can happen.” This was so. A book of fiction was a bomb. It was a land mine you wanted to go off. You wanted it to blow your whole day. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands of books were duds. They had been rusting out of everyone’s way for so long that they no longer worked. There was no way to distinguish the duds from the live mines except to throw yourself at them headlong, one by one.”