“Sidda can't help herself. She just loves books. Loves the way they feel, the way they smell, loves the black letters marching across the white pages...”
“She loved books. She loved them with her senses and her intellect. They way they looked and smelled; the way they felt in her hands; the way the pages seemed to murmur as she turned them. Everything there is in the world, she thought, is in books.”
“I just love the smell of an old book store and the feel of the crisp pages along my fingertips.”
“In my heart, I love books, I love writing. I love the lines of letters on a page.”
“She loved the smell of books, the feel of books, the look of them on the shelf.”
“Love itself became the object of her love. She loved herself in love, she loved loving love, as love loves loving, and was able, in that way, to reconcile herself with a world that fell so short of what she would have hoped for.”