In the books I find the thrum of everything unsayable. The characters weep the way I want to, love the way I want to, cry, die, beat their breasts, and bray with life.

Books, I think, are what magic smells like.

Everyone and Everything is conspiring to end up in a book.

I like best to have one book in my hand, and a stack of others on the floor beside me, so as to know the supply of poppy and mandragora will not run out before the small hours.

[I] read books because I love them, not because I think I should read them.

Reality doesn’t always give us the life that we desire, but we can always find what we desire between the pages of books.