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"I took the volume to a table, opened its soft, ivory pages... and fell into it as into a pool during dry season."
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"If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all."
"There is no other enjoyment like reading."
"Any reading not of a vicious species must be a good substitute for the amusements too apt to fill up the leisure of the labouring classes."
"The greatest gift is a passion for reading. It is cheap, it consoles, it distracts, it excites, it gives you knowledge of the world and experience of a wide kind. It is a moral illumination."
"Sometimes it is the reader that sucks, not the book."
"Books are always good company if you have the right sort. Let me pick out some for you.' And Mrs. Jo made a bee-line to the well-laden shelves, which were the joy of her heart and the comfort of her life."
"Kindle, isn't it? the waitress asked. "I got one for Christmas, and I love it. I'm reading my way through all of Jodi Picoult's books. "Oh, probably not all of them, Wesley said. "Huh? Why not? "She's probably got another one done already. That's all I meant. "And James Patterson's probably written one since he got up this morning! she said, and went off chortling."
Explore more quotes by Janet Fitch
"I hadn't understood at the time. If sinners were so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why.Without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my pastwas my life."
"Let me tell you a few things about regret, my darling. There is no end to it. You cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought us from there to here. Should you regret the whole chain, and the air in between, or each link separately?"
"Her hatred glittered irresistibly. I could see it, the jewel, it was sapphire, it was the cold lakes of Norway."
"A person didn't need to be beautiful, they just needed to be loved. But I couldn't help wanting it. If that was the way I could be loved, to be beautiful, I'd take it"
"My mother once wrote a poem about rivers. They were women, she wrote. Starting out small girls, tiny streams decorated with wildflowers. They were torrents, gouging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible. Later, they grew fat servicable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorged, grew the size of barges, and in the hundred - year storms, they rose up, forgetting the promises they made, the wedding vows, and drowned everything for miles around. Finally they gave out, birth - emptied, malarial, into a fan of swamps that met the ocean."
"What can I say about life? Do I praise it for letting you live, or damn it for allowing the rest?"
"What was beauty unless you intended to use it, like a hammer, or a key? It was just something for other people to use and admire, or envy, despise. To nail their dreams onto like a picture hanger on a blank wall. And so many girls saying, use me, dream me."
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