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

by Mark Lawrence

The first arrow hit a child. That was the opening line.

All books, no matter their binding, will fall to dust. The stories they carry may last longer.

The greatest story can reach the stars . . .

“There are no useless skills, girl. Only talents that have yet to find an application.”

When the water was gone there would be a change. Not a good change. But a change nonetheless.

in the dark of the night with the hollow sounds of the Dust all around and the bright stars cold in their heaven, sometimes what scared Livira more than the water running out was that the water would not run out and that this would be her life.

Truth will set you free . . . from certainty, comfort, and the beliefs upon which we rely for sanity . . .

no tears to shed. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—simply that what she had lost was, right now, too big to fit within her thinking.

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

Evar had three brothers: Mayland, the historian; Starval, the murderer; and Kerrol, whose speciality they all had their own unflattering names for.

Now twenty years old, he was still the little brother, apparently.

The Escape, clothed in whatever nightmare form it could find to steal, would be scary enough, but what Evar truly feared was that he would die here in this chamber, not beneath the talons of a monster but of old age.

The things leaked from the Mechanism, black ghosts seeking form among the richness of the book stacks, feeding on old ideas.

In a place where shadows held no sway the eye couldn’t take comfort in self-delusion. The blackness that flitted from behind one stack to hide behind another could have no source other than the Escape.

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

Evar! Don’t turn the page. I’m in the Exchange. Find me at the bottom

for some few, a stick would be required to keep them from such knowledge rather than drive them to it.

Such a child is a spark, and only a fool invites fire into their library.

Some sentiments transcend language. When spoken, expressions of love or hate rarely require translation for the meaning to penetrate.

“Gods below! We’ll have to burn those! And where are your shoes?” “In the future.” Livira was tired of being judged.

Kindness carries a weight; it’s a burden all its own when you have nothing. Some undeniable part of Livira wanted to bite the hands that offered so much so freely. Pride is stupid, pride is blind, but pride is also the backbone that runs through us: without pride there’s no spring-back, no resilience.

“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.”

Whilst all around, in sullen silence, the unloved show their spines in endless rows, aching for the touch that never comes.

Like all hunters, sorrow advances on slow, silent feet, until the last moment when it attacks from cover, springing with such speed that the impact rocks its victim on their heels. The first sob broke from Livira violently, as if her chest had been punched from the inside.