Strangers in Time

by David Baldacci

“I have received a very good education. And I have also read a great many books, which is like receiving another education in itself.”

what the Nazis really wanted, according to her father, was anarchy. Anarchy of the soul, he had further explained, which was the very worst anarchy of all.

“I see you are an avid reader,” he noted. “How did you know that?” she asked in surprise. “The eyes of a bibliophile are competent guides. They essentially sparkle when they alight upon books, as do a gourmand’s when he samples a chef’s fine creations, or those of a wine connoisseur when he is presented with a row of dusty Bordeaux bottles.”

“If you know where everything is, there is never a sense of surprise or discovery,

what else does one do with books besides read them and then wonder about what one has just read? And, even more pleasurably, what one will read next?”

“Why do you refer to Charlie as ‘Honorable’?” “Because he has the potential to be,” replied Oliver. “As do we all.”

“This is quite a good one. I think you will enjoy it.” He handed it over. Cedric took the book. “Consuelo by George Sand?” “Many consider this her best work.”

“My novel may be the best writing in the world, but if someone who can manage to have my jottings published does not like what I have written, my dream will never be realized. However, if what I have written is utter drivel, but lands in the hands of someone influential who loves such deplorable writing, I may see my book read by a great many. My dream will be realized, but so what? It’s all dependent on the whimsy of others.”

“I do not wish to live an uninspired life. I also do not wish to live a life not of my own making. I do not want to spend my time seeking something because someone else tells me that what I have is not good enough.”

It held shelves of old books and the sweet smells of her father’s strong pipe tobacco and the nuanced aromas wafting from old inkwells. Comfy, cracked leather chairs and a small couch with worn upholstered cushions with images of horses and buggies from another era sat in one corner. The room also had a sturdy fireplace and a decanter of whiskey with glasses on a wooden sideboard with a granite top that, as a little girl, she had dared not touch. It was her father’s sanctum. It reeked of him.

“Where are you going?” Molly asked. “Just for a walk.” “Do you want company?” Charlie said, “Umm…” “That’s all right,” she said kindly. “Sometimes I like to be alone, too.”