Time spent reading, like time spent loving, increases our lifetime.
We human beings build houses because we're alive but we write books because we're mortal. We live in groups because we're sociable but we read because we know we're alone. Reading offers a kind of companionship that takes no one's place but that no one can replace either. It offers no definitive explanation of our destiny but links us inextricably to life. Its tiny secret links remind us of how paradoxically happy we are to be alive while illuminating how tragically absurd life is.
A well-chosen book saves you from everything, including yourself.
The paradoxical virtue of reading lies in distancing ourselves from the world so that we may make sense of it.
All it takes is one teacher - just one - to save us from ourselves and make us forget all the others.
L’architecture est art de suggestion.
You can't make someone read. Just like you can't make them fall in love, or dream.
The teacher is commodified, the school is a shop, the subjects are consumer goods. To read, to think, to reflect, isn't a question of want, it's a question of need.
By making time to read, like making time to love, we expand our time for living.
Reader's Bill of Rights 1. The right to not read 2. The right to skip pages 3. The right to not finish 4. The right to reread 5. The right to read anything 6. The right to escapism 7. The right to read anywhere 8. The right to browse 9. The right to read out loud 10. The right to not defend your tastes
I master my doubts now. I have fun with them, they're my travelling companions.
But reading is different, reading is something you do. With TV, and cinema for that matter, everything's handed to you on a plate, nothing has to be worked at, they just spoon-feed you. The picture, the sound, the scenery, the atmospheric music in case you haven't understood what the director's on about... The creaking door that tells you to be stiff. You have to imagine it all when you're reading.
I've never had time to read. But no one ever kept me from finishing a novel I loved.
We keep quiet about what we read. Our enjoyment of a book remains a jealously guarded secret. Perhaps because there`s no need to talk, or because it takes time to distill what we've read before we can say anything. Silence is our guarantee of intimacy. We might have finished reading but we`re still living the book.
If you`re wondering how you`ll find time, it means you don`t really want to read. Because nobody`s ever got time. Children certainly haven`t, nor have teenagers or grown-ups. Life always gets in the way. <...> Time to read is always time stolen. <...> Stolen from what? From the tyranny of living.”- p.125
I have never experienced a sorrow that was not relieved by an hour of reading.
When you buy a jacket, it’s important the pockets are big enough for a paperback!
Each country thinks its school is in a specific crisis, without ever linking the school's crisis to that of the society around it.
Once a book falls into our possession, it is ours, the same way children lay their claim: 'That's my book.' As if it were organically part of them. That must be why we have so much trouble returning borrowed books. It's not exactly theft (of course not, we're not thieves, what are you implying?); it's simply a slippage in ownership or, better still, a transfer of substance. That which belonged to someone else becomes mine when I look at it. And if I like what I read, naturally I'll have difficulty giving it back.
