“There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books.”

“As the hours crept by, the afternoon sunlight bleached all the books on the shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselves and warmed the paper and ink inside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air.”

“Behind the counter, I slouched on my stool in the sun and sucked up the summer as If I could hold every drop of it inside of me. As the hours crept by, the afternoon sunlight bleached all the books on the shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselfs and warmed the paper and ink indside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air.”

“Unread books are like unopened doors.”

“Once in a very long time you come across a book that is far, far more than the ink, the glue and the paper, a book that seeps into your blood.”

“She closed the book and put her cheek against it. There was still an odor of a library on it, of dust, leather, binding glue, and old paper, one book carrying the smell of hundreds.”