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Stories grant the impossible emotional gravity, create new orbits—and your
mental universe expands

You, the reader,
who found your wild and winding way here to the pages.
You have a library inside you, do you not? Stories, told and
untold.

A library is people. Just as much as it is books and archives.
You want to know the heart of a library, don’t look at its
most famous books; look at the people it serves. Who it
comforts, who it protects. The heart of a library may be its
books, but its soul is its people. Humans and stories,
impossible to separate the two.

But as capable as they all were,
the story seemed to go right only when they were together.

Questo posto e questo momento sono la vita. È gioiosa, tremenda e complicata, a volte dolorosa, ma è reale e autentica. Spesso non ha senso ... Non è sempre possibile trovere una mossa per risolvere le cose o un'arguta via d'uscita. Ma si può sempre trovare una luce, basta voltare un po' le spalle al buio.

Even loneliness, hollow and cold, becomes so familiar it starts to feel like a
friend.

A reader doesn’t mark his life by days but by memories. A book
doesn’t mark its life by pages but by readers. We are made up of
those whom we touch.

Books are a secret hidden in plain sight. Read me, they say.
Look at me. Turn my pages. Touch my spine. Read my words,
and content yourself.
Every book is a secret that only readers know.

It was funny, how companionship did that. Like how just knowing
there was a campfire to return to made the night feel less dark, even when
you were far from it.

Inks had temperaments, personalities. And inks left marks,
smudged fingers, smeared words, lost meanings.

Here is how you make a sheet of parchment: Soak a pelt in a
scouring bath until it softens. Scrape the hair off. Treat the
skin with astringent tannic acids. Rack and torture until
tight.
And here’s how you make a story: Soak a life in
mortality. Scrape the soul.

Once upon a time. Long, long ago. Someday. And then what happened?
Living author or dead, written or not, your story shakes
the world. That’s common sense to a muse, and the idea librarians are supposed to honor. That every story, every human, matters.
The hard part is convincing ourselves first.

He could see it now, the tic in her jaw, the way her
shoulders trembled, just a flicker, before setting themselves hard against the
world.

Books have songs, songs have stories, and then there're humans at the heart of the jumbled mess. I've come to the conclusion that yiu can't just subtract a human from the story, no matter how hard you try.

There's more to a story than just its pages.

It was a perfect blend of mythic reverence and dreamlike impossibility.

Humans, stories, tragedies, and wishes—
everything leaves ripples in the world. Nothing we do is not
felt; that’s a comfort. Nothing we do is not felt; that’s a
curse.

But Claire lived by the firm moral philosophy that one could never have too many pockets, too many books, or too much tea.

But Claire lived by the firm moral philosophy that one could never have too many pockets, too many books, or too much tea.

For men have not learned to fear women as they should.

A river is a river
because it’s always leaving. The sea doesn’t do that – the sea goes in and
out like breath. But rivers just go.