How did you learn to do that?" asked Hugo. "Books," answered Isabelle.

Well, you know what they say, the reader is the final contributor. Cheers for doing the heavy lifting.

I admit I'm an escapist when it comes to books. I become drunk on story, on words, as a buffer against reality.' . . . If books were alcohol, he'd be the worst drunk in history.

I do love secondhand books that open to the page some previous owner read oftenest. The day Hazlitt came he opened to "I hate to read new books," and I hollered "Comrade!" to whoever owned it before me.

If I could have anything I wanted, I would choose story without end, and it seems I have lots of company in that.

Nearly all bookish people are snobs, and especially the more enlightened among them. They are apt to assume that if a writer has immense circulation, if he is enjoyed by plain persons, and if he can fill several theatres at once, he cannont possibly be worth reading and merits only indifference and disdain.