The Book That Wouldn’t Burn (The Library Trilogy, #1)

by Mark Lawrence

Among the many ways she had dreamed of leaving her home and escaping into the wideness of the world, none had been as sudden, violent, real, and final as this.

Without guilt we would all be monsters. And memory is the ink with which we list our crimes.

Some people strive so hard for centre stage—bleed themselves dry for your attention—and when they finally get there and the lights find them, they discover that all they had to say is ‘I was here.’ ” He frowned. “Though in truth, that might be an accurate precis of much of our great literature.”

“None of us really know what we’re here for or what we’re supposed to be doing. So, we shout out, hoping someone will hear, hoping someone will see us and reveal the great secret.”

Unknown gods had heard and answered the wordless prayer of her life.

It turned out that all she’d ever needed in order to behave herself was a total absence of boredom.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that if you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all?” Livira shook her head. “She died when I was little, but I’d remember if she’d said something that stupid.”

Scent is a peg on which memories are hung.

There are moments in life when you know with a great and unshakeable certainty that everything will change.

Like the Raven he’d died when no one was looking at him. People seemed to choose those moments. It seemed a lonely thing, dying.

It unsettled her how the same words could mean such different things to different people. How it might be possible for two sets of eyes to witness the same events and later give accounts at odds with each other.

“So, what’s the system here?” “That depends if it was designed by librarians,” Livira said. “Or by sane people.”

Few things are worse enemies of civilisation than a corrupt official, but an honest official of corrupt laws is definitely one of them.

Livira had often felt that the saving grace of rules was how much fun they were to break.

War is often described as long periods of boredom, punctuated by moments of terror. A description that is functionally identical to many people’s lives.

She kept her experiences to herself, however. It wasn’t that she thought Meelan or Malar would tell on her, but secrets always seemed to escape if given space. One person could hold a secret tight to their chest with both hands. When it was two, or three, or four people it was as if that secret had to be tossed back and forth between them, creating many chances to drop it.

All of us in our secret hearts, in our empty moments of contemplation, stumble into the understanding that nothing matters. There’s a cold shock of realisation and, in that moment, we know that nothing at all is of the least consequence. Ultimately, we’re all just spinning our wheels, seeking to avoid pain until the clock winds down and our time is spent. To give someone purpose is to free them, however briefly, from the spectre of that knowledge.”

“When a dog stops barking, that’s when you should be most afraid of its bite.”

“Old dogs can teach us new tricks. An old dog shuffles on, relentlessly happy, still interested in the world. Even when they’re too worn out to run it’s still there—no bitterness, no regret, no looking back, just on to the next thing with amiable confusion. Dogs are nothing but good.”

She turned and carried on among the trees. “Where are you going?” “To break some more rules.” Livira tossed her head. “Coming?”

“Starval says oversharing is the best cover for secrets. If people believe you could no more hold a secret than a hot stone, then they won’t pry.”

Are you even you, or just the story you’re telling about yourself?”