The Shadow of the Wind (The Cemetery of Forgotten Books, #1)

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

ONCE, IN MY FATHER’S BOOKSHOP, I HEARD A REGULAR CUSTOMER SAY that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.

I adored her all the more, because of the eternal human stupidity of pursuing those who hurt us the most.

The words with which a child’s heart is poisoned, through malice or through ignorance, remain branded in his memory, and sooner or later they burn his soul.”

He used to say that we exist as long as somebody remembers us.”

“Someone once said that the moment you stop to think about whether you love someone, you’ve already stopped loving that person forever,”

But in good time you’ll see that sometimes what matters isn’t what one gives but what one gives up.

Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it.”

Does the madman know he is mad? Or are the madmen those who insist on convincing him of his unreason in order to safeguard their own idea of reality?