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But life was like that, wasn’t it? A never-ending series of events, the ripples of which would either push you away from people or pull you toward them.
she tried to speak, she might angry-cry, which was just the worst kind of cry because everyone assumed you were upset, when in fact you were so full of rage that if your tear ducts didn’t let out some pressure your head would explode.
“Keeping books is not hoarding!” Nory said fiercely, clutching an aged copy of Heidi to her chest. “It’s protecting history. The written word is the key to the secrets of this world and all the worlds that live in our minds.”
Suicide was greedy; it didn’t just take your friend once—it kept coming back for more, taking and taking, so that your remembrances were always bittersweet.
“I have loved you for so long. Everything that happened before I knew you was merely a prelude to loving you. Everything that has happened since has been the result of my loving you. And I promise that everything in my future will revolve around loving you.”
“You aren’t responsible for other people’s actions, or their happiness. It isn’t your job to make everyone feel better. Your altruism is to be commended but not at the expense of yourself.”
Some books wrote themselves into people’s hearts as children and lived there, all but forgotten, until a bookseller recognized the spark and reunited them. Other books held their words close, waiting on the shelf to ignite a passion in someone who hadn’t even known they were wanting, until a bookseller introduced them.
