The books that the world calls immoral are the books that show the world its own shame.
Child! Do not throw this book about;
refrain from the unholy pleasure
of cutting all the pictures out!
Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.
To every man who struggles with his own soul in mystery, a book that is a book flowers once, and seeds, and is gone.
A book is not harmless merely because no one is consciously offended by it.
A good book is the purest essence of a human soul.
All books are divisible into two classes, the books of the hours, and the books of all time.
A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured upon purpose to a life beyond life.
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature. God's image. But he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye.
He felt about books as doctors feel about medicines, or managers about plays -- cynical but hopeful.
The book is good
which puts me in a working mind.
Nothing links man to man like the frequent passage from hand to hand of a good book.
We all know books burn -- yet we have the greater knowledge that books cannot be killed by fire. People die, but books never die. No man and no force can abolish memory... In this war, we know books are weapons.
All that mankind has done, thought, gained, or been; it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books
I love to lose myself in other people's minds. Books think for me.
Oh, it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn't. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read.
A good heavy book holds you down. It’s an anchor that keeps you from getting up and having another gin and tonic.
A special feature of the structure of our book is the monstrous but perfectly organic part that eavesdropping plays in it.
This book is not written in anger. It is written in fury.
There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal adventure it is an experience of great social import. Even as the tranced swain, the booklover yearns to tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, intrudes it into telephone messages, and insists on his friends writing down the title of the find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once certain of his conquest, “I want you to love her, too!” It is a jealous passion also. He feels a little indignant if he finds that any one else has discovered the book, too.