Bookseller Quotes

That's your truck parked up by the factory isn't it?" Magnus pointed. "It's awfully butch for a bookseller.

Booksellers are the most valuable destination for the lonely, given the numbers of books written because authors couldn't find anyone to talk to.

I love seeing the bookshops and meeting the booksellers-- booksellers really are a special breed. No one in their right mind would take up clerking in a bookstore for the salary, and no one in his right mind would want to own one-- the margin of profit is too small. So, it has to be a love of readers and reading that makes them do it-- along with first dibs on the new books.

CUSTOMER: I’m always on night shift at work. BOOKSELLER (jokingly): Is that why you’re buying so many vampire novels? CUSTOMER (seriously): You can never be too prepared.

Perdu reflected that is was a common misconception that booksellers looked after books. They look after people.

CUSTOMER: I don’t know why she wants it, but my wife asked for a copy of The Dinosaur Cookbook. BOOKSELLER: The Dinah Shore Cookbook?

CUSTOMER: Hi, I just wanted to ask: did Anne Frank ever write a sequel? BOOKSELLER: ........ CUSTOMER: I really enjoyed her first book. BOOKSELLER: Her diary? CUSTOMER: Yes, the diary. BOOKSELLER: Her diary wasn’t fictional. CUSTOMER: Really? BOOKSELLER: Yes... She really dies at the end – that’s why the diary finishes. She was taken to a concentration camp. CUSTOMER: Oh... that’s terrible. BOOKSELLER: Yes, it was awful - CUSTOMER: I mean, it’s such a shame, you know? She was such a good writer.

There are essentially two things that will make you wise -- the books you read and the people you meet.

That’s your truck parked up by the factory isn’t it?” Magnus pointed. “It’s awfully butch for a bookseller.

CUSTOMER: I’d like to buy this audiobook. BOOKSELLER: Great. CUSTOMER: Only, I don’t really like this narrator. BOOKSELLER: Oh. CUSTOMER: Do you have a selection of narrators to choose from? Ideally, I’d like Benedict Cumberbatch

Dedication: For librarians and booksellers everywhere, who gather books and build shelters for tender souls.

CUSTOMER: Hi. BOOKSELLER: Hi there, how can I help? CUSTOMER: Could you please explain Kindle to me. BOOKSELLER: Sure. It’s an e-reader, which means you download books and read them on a small hand-held computer. CUSTOMER: Oh OK, I see. So . . . this Kindle. Are the books on that paperback or hardback?

I love Stephen King as much as any red rum drinking American, but I resent the fact that I, the bookseller, am his bitch.

CUSTOMER:"Will you be open so I can buy the new Harry Potter book? BOOKSELLER: Yep, we're having a midnight opening. CUSTOMER: Great! What time?

MAN: Do you have black and white film posters? BOOKSELLER: Yes, we do. They’re over here. MAN: Do you have any posters of Adolf Hitler? BOOKSELLER: Pardon? MAN: Adolf Hitler. BOOKSELLER: Well, he wasn’t a film star, was he. MAN: Yes, he was. He was American. Jewish, I think...

Customer: I'm looking for a book for my son. He's six. Bookseller: How about this one - it's about- Customer: Yeah, whatever, I'll take it.

There's something kind of heroic about being a bookseller.

At your next book club meeting, picture me sitting quietly in the corner, taking notes on your preferences. Imagine the next day you get an email from me trying to sell you a new grill — or a book — or accessories for your Glock. That's the Amazon/Goodreads deal. It's appalling. But everywhere in the press, you'll read about the genius of Amazon." (Michael Herrmann and the booksellers of Gibson's)

When you sell a man a book you don’t sell him just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue - you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night - there’s all heaven and earth in a book, a real book I mean.

on the phone Bookseller: Hello Ripping Yarns. Customer: Do you have any mohair wool? Bookseller: Sorry, we're not a yarns shop, we're a bookshop. Customer: You're called Ripping Yarns. Bookseller: Yes, that's 'yarns' as in stories. Customer: Well it's a stupid name. Bookseller: It's a Monty Python reference. Customer: So you don't sell wool? Bookseller: No. Customer: Hmf. Ridiculous. Bookseller: ...but we do sell dead parrots. Customer: What? Bookseller: Parrots. Dead. Extinct. Expired. Would you like one? Customer: Erm, no. Bookseller: Ok, well if you change your mind, do call back.

CUSTOMER: Which was the first Harry Potter book? BOOKSELLER: The Philosopher’s Stone. CUSTOMER: And the second? BOOKSELLER: The Chamber of Secrets. CUSTOMER: I’l take The Chamber of Secrets. I don’t want The Philosopher’s Stone. BOOKSELLER: Have you already read that one? CUSTOMER: No, but with series of books I always find they take a while to really get going. I don’t want to waste my time with the useless introductory stuff at the beginning. BOOKSELLER: The story in Harry Potter actually starts right away. Personally, I do recommend that you start with the first book – and it’s very good. CUSTOMER: Are you working on commission? BOOKSELLER: No. CUSTOMER: Right. How many books are there in total? BOOKSELLER: Seven. CUSTOMER: Exactly. I’m not going to waste my money on the first book when there are so many others to buy. I’l take the second one. BOOKSELLER: . . . If you’re sure. (One week later, the customer returns) BOOKSELLER: Hi, did you want to buy a copy of The Prisoner of Azkaban? CUSTOMER: What’s that? BOOKSELLER: It’s the book after The Chamber of Secrets. CUSTOMER: Oh, no, definitely not. I found that book far too confusing. I ask you, how on earth are children supposed to understand it if I can’t? I mean, who the heck is that Voldemort guy anyway? No. I’m not going to bother with the rest. BOOKSELLER: . . .

I wish you hadn't been so over-courteous about putting the inscription on a card instead of on the flyleaf. It's the bookseller coming out in you all, you were afraid you'd decrease its value. You would have increased it for the present owner. (And possibly for the future owner. I love inscriptions on flyleaves and notes in margins, I like the comradely sense of turning pages someone else turned, and reading passages someone long gone has called my attention to.)

CUSTOMER: I’m looking for a biography to read that’s really interesting. Could you recommend one? BOOKSELLER: Sure. What books have you read and liked? CUSTOMER: Well, I really loved Mein Kampf. BOOKSELLER: . . . CUSTOMER: Loved is probably not the right word. BOOKSELLER: No. Probably not. CUSTOMER: Liked, is probably better. Yes. Liked. I liked it a lot. BOOKSELLER: . . .

CUSTOMER: Do you have security cameras in here? BOOKSELLER: Yes. CUSTOMER: Oh. (customer slides a book out from inside his jacket and places it back on the shelf)

CUSTOMER: What kind of bookshop is this? BOOKSELLER: We're an antiquarian bookshop. CUSTOMER: Oh, so you sell books about fish.

CUSTOMER: You know that film, Coraline? BOOKSELLER: Yes, indeed. CUSTOMER: My daughter loves it. Are they going to make it into a book?

CUSTOMER: Do you have that book – I forget what it’s called; it’s about people with large, hairy feet. BOOKSELLER: Do you mean hobbits? The Lord of the Rings? CUSTOMER: No.... erm – The Hairy Bikers.

CUSTOMER (holding up a copy of a Harry Potter book): This doesn’t have anything weird in it... does it? BOOKSELLER: You mean, like, werewolves? CUSTOMER: No (whispers) - gays. BOOKSELLER: . . . right.

A man's bookseller should keep his confidence, like his physician. What can become of a world where every man knows what another man reads? Why, sir, books would become like quacks' potions, with every mountebank in the newspapers claiming one volume's superiority over another.

These days, it seems like you can't throw a fish in a bookstore without hitting a high-stakes love triangle--not that I recommend the throwing of fish in bookstores, mind you, as it certainly annoys the booksellers, not to mention the fish...

We forget that the simple gesture of putting a book in someone's hands can change a life. I want to remind you that it can. I want to thank you because it did. - 2010 Indies Choice Award

I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians.

I am putting a mental jigsaw together of what a hobbit looks like, based on a composite of every customer I have ever sold a copy to.

I think suddenly about what it means to grow old. It means that all those that you loved as a youth become nothing but photographs on a wall, words in a story, memories in a heart.

Customer: Do you have any medical textbooks? Bookseller: Sorry, no. They go out of date so quickly we don't stock them, but I can order one in for you. Customer: I'm not worried about it being in date. Bookseller: Does your university not request you have a specific edition? Customer: Oh, I'm not a medical student. I just want to learn how to do stitches. Bookseller: ... Right. Customer: Do you have a book on sewing instead?

CUSTOMER: Do you have a copy of Nineteen Eighty Six? BOOKSELLER: Nineteen Eighty Six? CUSTOMER: Yeah, Orwell. BOOKSELLER: Oh – Nineteen Eighty Four. CUSTOMER: No, I’m sure it’s Nineteen Eighty. Six; I’ve always remembered it because it’s the year I was born.

WOMAN: Hi, where are your copies of Breaking Dawn? I can't see any on the shelf. BOOKSELLER: Sorry, I think we’ve sold out of the Twilight books; we’re waiting on more. WOMAN: What? BOOKSELLER: We should have some in tomorrow. WOMAN: But I need a copy now. I finished the last one last night. BOOKSELLER: I’m sorry, I can’t help you. WOMAN: No, you don’t understand. I’ve taken the whole day off work to read it. BOOKSELLER: Erm… WOMAN: I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS! NOW! BOOKSELLER: Erm… WOMAN: Can you call your wholesaler and see if they can deliver this afternoon? BOOKSELLER: They only --- WOMAN: And then I can wait here for them. BOOKSELLER: I’m sorry, they only deliver in the morning. WOMAN: BUT WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW? BOOKSELLER: . . .we have many other books. WOMAN (sniffs): Do any of those have Robert Pattinson in them?

CUSTOMER: You know how they say that if you gave a thousand monkeys typewriters, then they’d eventually churn out really good writing? BOOKSELLER: . . . yes. CUSTOMER: Well, do you have any books by those monkeys? BOOKSELLER: . . .

If peace had a smell,it would be the smell of a library full of old, leather-bound books.

The beauty of being a bookseller is that you don't have to be a literary critic: all you have to do to books is enjoy them.

It is impossible for a Parisian to resist the desire to flick through the old volumes laid out by a bookseller. [Il est impossible, pour un Parisien, de résister au désir de feuilleter de vieux ouvrages étalés par un bouquiniste.]

When a man has everything and does not know what more to do, he tries to teach his donkey to talk.

The bookseller could not imagine what might be more practical than a book,

Dear FB Friends, Fuck Facebook!!!!! — It has proven to be worthless as a book-selling device, and is nothing but a repository for perverts, reparation-seekers, old buddies looking for handouts, syphillitic ex-girlfriends looking for extra-curricular schlong and hack writers begging for blurbs.

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunch-backed makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed form kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries' vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers, heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters' sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etiolated lacquerers; mottle-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men's wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night's rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

CUSTOMER: Do you have any of those books where you can change the names of the main character to the name of the person you're giving the book to? Do you have Alice in Wonderland, but not Alice, I'd like Sarah in Wonderland. BOOKSELLER: I'm afraid you have to buy those from the publisher, as they're a print on demand service. CUSTOMER: Yeah, I don't really have time to do that. Do you have a copy of Alice? Then I can buy some Tipp-ex or something, and edit it.

Books choose their readers, not the other way around. I believe that booksellers are the matchmakers. Thank you.

What the sounds and smells do not divulge, gossip supplies. It spreads like wildfire in the neighborhood, where everyone is watching one another's morals.

Money can't buy happiness, BUT it can buy books (which is basically the same thing).

It has meaning to me. And the longer I do this (bookselling, yes, of course, but also living if that isn’t too awfully sentimental), the more I believe that this is what the point of it all is. To connect, my dear little nerd. Only connect.

CUSTOMER: These books are really stupid, aren’t they? BOOKSELLER: Which ones? CUSTOMER: You know, the ones where animals like cats and mice are best friends. BOOKSELLER: I suppose they’re not very realistic, but then that’s fiction. CUSTOMER: They’re more than unrealistic; they’re really stupid. BOOKSELLER: Well, writers use that kind of thing to teach kids about accepting people different to themselves, you know? CUSTOMER: Yeah, well, books shouldn’t pretend that different people get on like that and that everything is ‘la de da’ and wonderful, should they? Kids should learn that life’s a bitch, and the sooner the better.

It's my belief that anyone worth knowing enjoys spending time in a bookshop.

I turned to discover the faint smile of the bookseller's niece. Her voice was pure crystal, transparent and so fragile I feared that her words would break if I interrupted them.

A bookseller," said Grandfather, "is the link between mind and mind, the feeder of the hungry, very often the binder up of wounds. There he sits, your bookseller, surrounded by a thousand minds all done up neatly in cardboard cases; beautiful minds, courageous minds, strong minds, wise minds, all sorts and conditions. There come into him other minds, hungry for beauty, for knowledge, for truth, for love, and to the best of his ability he satisfies them all....Yes....It's a great vocation....Moreover his life is one of wide horizons. He deals in the stuff of eternity and there's no death in a bookseller's shop. Plato and Jane Austen and Keats sit side by side behind his back, Shakespeare is on his right hand and Shelley on his left.

These days, we've got booksellers in cities, in deserts, and in the middle of a rain forest; we've got travelling bookshops, and bookshops underground. We've got bookshops in barns, in caravans and in converted Victorian railway stations. We've even got booksellers selling books in the middle of a war. Are bookshops still relevant? They certainly are. All bookshops are full of stories, and stories want to be heard.

All my scripts have artistic backgrounds -- ballet, concert hall, opera -- and all the suspects and corpses are cultured, maybe I'll do one about the rare book business in your honor, do you want to be the murderer or the corpse?

Bookselling is like prostitution, you sell your wares, you close your eyes, and you never fall in love with the clients. You also keep your fingers crossed that they won't ask for anything perverted.

A sign of the times: there are no longer any chairs in the bookshops along the embankments. [Noël] France was the last bookseller who provided chairs where you could sit down and chat and waste a little time between sales. Nowadays books are bought standing. A request for a book and the naming of the price: that is the sort of transaction to which the all-devouring activity of modern trade has reduced bookselling, which used to be a matter for dawdling, idling, and chatty, friendly browsing.

I read. And you know 'no offense' means 'I am about to be or have just been fucking offensive.

CUSTOMER: Is your mother around ? BOOKSELLER: ... I run this bookshop. CUSTOMER: Oh. Sorry.

He cannot lock us all up.” “He has prisons enough.” “For bodies, yes. But what are bodies? He can take our goods, but God will prosper us. He can close the booksellers, but still there will be books. They have their old bones, their glass saints in windows, their candles and shrines, but God has given us the printing press.

CUSTOMER: I’d love to write a book. BOOKSELLER: Then you should write one. CUSTOMER: I really don’t have the time. BOOKSELLER: I’m sure you could make time. CUSTOMER: No, you don’t get it; I really don’t have the time. I had my fortune read on Monday, and the fortune teller lady said that I’m going to get knocked down by a bus next week. She said that it’ll probably kill me BOOKSELLER: ... Oh. Well, er, that doesn’t sound very nice. CUSTOMER: No, it doesn’t, does it? It’s really annoying, too, ’cause I’d booked a holiday for next month, and I was really looking forward to it.

Hell hath no fury, they say, like a man treated the same way as he treats women.

It’s a romantic novel,” Jaenelle said in a small voice as he called in his half-moon glasses and started idly flipping the pages. “A couple of women in a bookseller’s shop kept talking about it.” Romance. Passion. Sex. He suppressed—barely—the urge to leap to his feet and twirl her around the room. A sign of emotional healing? Please, sweet Darkness, please let it be a sign of healing.

The women in my life have all been librarians, English teachers, or booksellers. If they couldn't speak pidgin Tolstoy, articulate Henry James, or give me directions to Usher and Ox, it was no go. I have always longed for education, and pillow talk's the best.

Books help us anchor our souls, or re-anchor them; particularly for us, the left-handed, given the things we have to do.

My husband claims I have an unhealthy obsession with secondhand bookshops. That I spend too much time daydreaming altogether. But either you intrinsically understand the attraction of searching for hidden treasure amongst rows of dusty shelves or you don't; it's a passion, bordering on a spiritual illness, which cannot be explained to the unaffected. True, they're not for the faint of heart. Wild and chaotic, capricious and frustrating, there are certain physical laws that govern secondhand bookstores and like gravity, they're pretty much nonnegotiable. Paperback editions of D. H. Lawrence must constitute no less than 55 percent of all stock in any shop. Natural law also dictates that the remaining 45 percent consist of at least two shelves worth of literary criticism on Paradise Lost and there should always be an entire room in the basement devoted to military history which, by sheer coincidence, will be haunted by a man in his seventies. (Personal studies prove it's the same man. No matter how quickly you move from one bookshop to the next, he's always there. He's forgotten something about the war that no book can contain, but like a figure in Greek mythology, is doomed to spend his days wandering from basement room to basement room, searching through memoirs of the best/worst days of his life.) Modern booksellers can't really compare with these eccentric charms. They keep regular hours, have central heating, and are staffed by freshly scrubbed young people in black T-shirts. They're devoid of both basement rooms and fallen Greek heroes in smelly tweeds. You'll find no dogs or cats curled up next to ancient space heathers like familiars nor the intoxicating smell of mold and mildew that could emanate equally from the unevenly stacked volumes or from the owner himself. People visit Waterstone's and leave. But secondhand bookshops have pilgrims. The words out of print are a call to arms for those who seek a Holy Grail made of paper and ink.

It's the story of a bookseller who finds a handbag in the street one day, takes it home with him, empties out its contents and decides to look for the woman who owns it. He succeeds but when he finds her, he runs off like an idiot.

As always, huge thanks to booksellers and librarians and educators! Now more than ever your determination to keep books like mine available for customers, patrons, and students like yours is so appreciated. Thank you for fighting that fight.

I have seen this in thirty years of bookselling: customers stroking a book’s cover, peeking under the jacket, surreptitiously closing their eyes to smell the valley of pages - this sometimes accompanied by a quiet moan of pleasure- hugging it after purchase, and even giving it a little kiss.

Trust your happiness and the richness of your life at this moment. It is as true and as much yours as anything else that ever happened to you. —Katherine Anne Porter, Letters of Katherine Anne Porter

Some people read for instruction, which is praiseworthy, and some for pleasure, which is innocent, but not a few read from habit, and I suppose that is neither innocent nor praiseworthy. Of that lamentable company am I. Conversation after a time bores me, games tire me, and my own thoughts, which we are told are the unfailing resource of a sensible man, have a tendency to run dry. Then I fly to my book as the opium-seeker to his pipe. I would sooner read the catalogue of the Army and Navy stores or Bradshaw's Guide than nothing at all, and indeed I have spent many delightful hours over both these works. At one time I never went out without a second-hand bookseller's list in my pocket. I know no reading more fruity. Of course to read in this way is as reprehensible as doping, and I never cease to wonder at the impertinence of great readers who, because they are such, look down on the illiterate. From the standpoint of what eternity is it better to have read a thousand books than to have ploughed a million furrows? Let us admit that reading with us is just a drug that we cannot do without — who of this band does not know the restlessness that attacks him when he has been severed from reading too long, the apprehension and irritability, and the sigh of relief which the sight of a printed page extracts from him? — and so let us be no more vainglorious than the poor slaves of the hypodermic needle or the pint-pot. And like the dope-fiend who cannot move from place to place without taking with him a plentiful supply of his deadly balm I never venture far without a sufficiency of reading matter. Books are so necessary to me that when in a railway train I have become aware that fellow-travellers have come away without a single one I have been seized with a veritable dismay. But when I am starting on a long journey the problem is formidable.

A woman spent about ten minutes looking around the shop, then told me that she was a retired librarian. I suspect she thought that this was some sort of a bond between us. Not so. On the whole, booksellers dislike librarians. To realise a good price for a book, it has to be in decent condition, and there is nothing librarians like more than taking a perfectly good book and covering it with stamps and stickers before – and with no sense of irony – putting a plastic sleeve over the dust jacket to protect it from the public. The final ignominy for a book that has been in the dubious care of a public library is for the front free endpaper to be ripped out and a ‘DISCARD’ stamp whacked firmly onto the title page, before it is finally made available for members of the public to buy in a sale. The value of a book that has been through the library system is usually less than a quarter of one that has not.

Everybody keeps saying be satisfied with Jesus's love, and he will give us our daily bread. I keep waiting, but we never get any bread, so I have to go out and do things for myself.

CUSTOMER: Do you have a book with a list of careers? I want to give my daughter some inspiration. BOOKSELLER: Ah, is she applying to university? CUSTOMER: Oh no, not yet. She’s just over there. Sweetheart? (a four year old girl comes over) CUSTOMER: There you are. Now, you talk to the nice lady, and I’m going to find you a book on how to become a doctor or a scientist. What do you think about that? (The girl says nothing) CUSTOMER (to bookseller): Won’t be a sec. (Customer wanders off into non-fiction) BOOKSELLER: So, what’s your name? CHILD: Sarah. BOOKSELLER: Sarah? That’s a beautiful name. CHILD: Thank you. BOOKSELLER: So, Sarah, what do you want to be when you grow up? CHILD: . . . A bumblebee. BOOKSELLER: Excellent.

Be a writer, if you will Or don’t, no one will care Order your shelves, or not Kill or kiss your darlings Simply write

You know what they say: ‘The cats and the owls and the better type of raven, know more of what is doing than any human maven.

Shakespeare knew too much.

For when I trace back the years I have liv'd, gathering them up in my Memory, I see what a chequer'd Work Of Nature my life has been. If I were now to inscribe my own History with its unparalleled Sufferings and surprizing Adventures (as the Booksellers might indite it), I know that the great Part of the World would not believe the Passages there related, by reason of the Strangeness of them, but I cannot help their Unbelief; and if the Reader considers them to be but dark Conceits, then let him bethink himself that Humane life is quite out of the Light and that we are all Creatures of Darknesse.

At 10.15 a.m. a woman walked in and roared, ‘I am in my element! Books!’, then continued to shout questions at me for an hour while she waddled about the shop like a ‘stately goose’, as Gogol describes Sobakevich’s wife in Dead Souls. Predictably, she didn’t buy anything.

Prefacing a sentence with 'I don't want to appear rude, but...' flags up the same alarm bells as 'I am not racist, but...' It's quite simple: if you don't want to appear rude, don't be rude. If you're not a racist, don't behave like a racist.

War was a central theme in maths books too. School books - because the Taliban printed books soley for boys - did not calcualte in apples and cakes, but in bullets and kalasnikovs. Something like this: 'little Omar has a kalasnikov with three magazines. There are twenty bullets in each magazine. He uses two thirds of the bullets and kills sixty infidels does he kill with each bullet?

But there is something about pleasing your parents, even when you’re grown up, even when you’re almost middle-aged yourself. It never goes away, at least not for me.

I believe in God, and I love my brother. But I don't want any religion that will demand I lose my individuality.

Most ordinary criminals steer clear of the weird shit. There are the Death Cults, but . . . I trust you’ll never need to know about them.

لا يمكنني تغيير أخطاء الماضي. كل ما أملك القيام به هو المضي قدماً مهما كان المستقبل الذي يحمله حاضري الجديد

A tree is strong But the wind is stronger A stone is strong But the sea is stronger The sun is strong But sorrow is stronger

It is never the dogs who break faith.

Anonymity became a release, the only place to which I could turn.

bookseller: Can I help at all? customer: Yes, where’s your fiction section? bookseller: It starts over on the far wall. Are you looking for anything in particular? customer: Yes, any books by Stefan Browning. bookseller: I’m not familiar with him, what kind of books has he written? customer: I don’t know if he’s written any. You see, my name’s Stefan Browning, and I always like to go into bookshops to see if anyone with my name has written a book. bookseller: . . . right. customer: Because then I can buy it, you see, and carry it around with me and tell everyone that I’ve had a novel published.Then everyone will think I’m really cool, don’t you think?

I would browse for half an hour or so in the secondhand bookstores in the neighborhood. Owning my own 'library' was my only materialistic ambition; in fact, trying to decide which two of these thousands of books to buy that week, I would frequently get so excited that by the time the purchase was accomplished I had to make use of the bookseller's toilet facilities. I don't believe that either microbe or laxative has ever affected me so strongly as the discovery that I was all at once the owner of a slightly soiled copy of Empson's Seven Types of Ambiguity in the original English edition.

We've always used stories as a way to pass on our history, as a way to explain things in life that we don't understand. We use them to make us feel connected to everything around us, and to help us escape to another time or place. Bookshops across the world are full of these stories. From travelling booksellers and undercover bookshops, to pop-up stalls and community hubs, walking into a good bookshop is like walking into another zone.These places are time machines, spaceships, story-makers, secret-keepers. They are dragon-tamers, dream-catchers, fact-finders and safe places. They are full of infinite possibilities, and tales worth taking home. Because whether we're in the middle of the desert or in the heart of a city, on the top of a mountain or on an underground train: having good stories to keep us company can mean the whole world.

I mention in the dedication that this book is partially in honor of booksellers and librarians everywhere. I can’t say enough about how much I’ve been impacted by the magic of bookstores and libraries. Books can change lives, but it is the people who love them, who dedicate their lives to them, who make the real difference. If books can’t find their way to the readers who need them, who will be touched by them, who will be transformed by them, they lose their power. So thank you for the bottom of my heart to anyone who works in a bookstore or a library—and especially to those of you who have been courageous and adventurous enough to become bookstore owners, which must be as perilous at times as it is rewarding. Books are more than just words on a page; they are bridges to building communities and to developing more compassionate, more aware citizens. Those of you who love books enough to want to share them are truly changing the world. (in acknowledgements)

In Afghanistan a woman’s longing for love is taboo. It is forbidden by the tribes’ notion of honor and by the mullahs. Young people have no right to meet, to love, or to choose. Love has little to do with romance; on the contrary, love can be interpreted as committing a serious crime, punishable by death.

The problem, in a nutshell, is that collecting books is much more than a hobby. The sheer amount of space required to house most book collections means that whoever shares your living area needs to be very understanding, or more ideally a co-conspirator, because the rest of their lives will be spent making room for your incredibly invasive pastime, until one day they trip on a folio and plummet to their doom down a staircase.

A monkey is always a monkey," says the proverb, "even if he has birth-tokens of gold." Although you have a book in your hand and read all the time, you do not under­stand a single thing that you read, but you are like the donkey that listens to the lyre and wags his ears. If possessing books made their owner learned, they would indeed be a possession of great price, and only rich men like you would have them, since you could buy them at auction, as it were, outbidding us poor men. In that case, however, who could rival the dealers and booksellers for learning, who possess and sell so many books ? But if you care to look into the matter, you will see that they are not much superior to you in that point; they are barbarous of speech and obtuse in mind like you—just what one would expect people to be who have no conception of what is good and bad. Yet you have only two or three books which they themselves have sold you, while they handle books night and day.

I was walking up and down the rows of books at the antiquarian bookseller's in Karlova Street. Now and then I would take a look out the shop window. It started to snow heavily; holding a book in my hand I watched the snowflakes swirling in front of the wall of St Savior's Church. I returned to my book, savoring its aroma and allowing my eyes to flit over its pages, reading here and there the fragment of a sentence that suddenly sparkled mysteriously because it was taken out of context. I was in no hurry; I was happy to be in a room that smelled pleasantly of old books, where it was warm and quiet, where the pages rustled as they were turned, as if the books were sighing in their sleep. I was glad I didn't have to go out into the darkness and the snowstorm.

To write books is easy, it requires only pen and ink and the ever-patient paper. To print books is a little more difficult, because genius so often rejoices in illegible handwriting. To read books is more difficult still, because of a tendency to go to sleep. But the most difficult task of all that a mortal man can embark on is to sell a book.

How much such a little moon can do. There are days when everything about one is bright, light, scarcely stated in the clear air and yet distinct. Even what lies nearest has tones of distance, has been taken away and is only shown, not proffered; and everything related to expanse–the river, the bridges, the longs streets, and the squares that squander themselves–has taken that expanse in behind itself, is painted on it as on silk. It is not possible to say what a bright green wagon on the Pont-Neuf can then become, or some red that is not to be held in, or even a simple placard on the party wall of a pearl-grey group of houses. Everything is simplified, brought into a few right, clear planes, like the face in a Manet portrait. And nothing is trivial and superfluous. The booksellers on the quai open their stalls, and the fresh or worn yellow of their books, the violet brown of the bindings, the bigger green of an album–everything harmonizes, counts, takes part, creating a fulness in which nothing lacks

There was John Masefield’s The Box of Delights; and the C. S. Lewis Narnia books; and Patricia Lynch’s The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey; The Winter of Enchantment by Victoria Walker; Black Hearts in Battersea by Joan Aiken; several of Rosemary Sutcliff’s historical novels, including Susan’s favorite, The Silver Branch; Power of Three by Diana Wynne Jones; The Weirdstone of Brisingamen by Alan Garner; Five Children and It by E. Nesbit; and many others.