“Walking the stacks in a library, dragging your fingers across the spines -- it's hard not to feel the presence of sleeping spirits.”

“Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and runing its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.”

“As a stalwart reader of printed books, I’m left to wonder what will happen to the wide, slow silty river of the their history, to the countless volumes waiting now in the abandoned silence of library stacks. Stacks: The word itself connects books to the harvest, to corn and hay. They were always earthbound. Smell the must, feel the brittle, browning pages between your thumb and forefinger. The tears, the cracked spines, the stains and folds. Even if we readers forget them, printed books will hold us in their memory.”

“It takes a long time to open someone like a book, you need to press your spines together. Then the patterns of your spines get imprinted, pressed together in invisible moulds. Someone else's bones nestled in with your own bones to form little memory fossils. Sometimes, if you run your fingers down someone's back you can feel the notches, it's like reading in braille.”

“Chills run down my spine as our fingers intwineAnd your sighs harmonize with mineUnmistakably I can still feel your heartBeat fast when you dance with me.”

“Library stacks from this perspective are not a repository; they are a crowd.”