Arm of the Sphinx (The Books of Babel, #2)

by Josiah Bancroft

What had seemed dull grit a moment before was transformed into a beautiful collection of tiny shells, stones, and crystals—a trove of unrepeatable miracles. The Tower was no different: uniform to the distant eye, unique to the near.

The gaps in a library are like footprints in the sand: They show us where others have gone before; they assure us we are not alone.

If pencils were all we had, I suspect there would be far fewer books. I did briefly consider scratching

If books are traps, then let them be like terrariums: sealed-up and still-living miniatures of the world.