The Last Bookshop In London Quotes

Reading is...” His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. “It’s going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.

It is through books that we can find the greatest hope, he had

Books are what have brought us together. A love of the stories within, the adventures they take us on, their glorious distraction in a time of strife.

The spine, not yet stretched, creaked open, like an ancient door preparing to unveil a secret world.

Deeper still was the profound understanding for mankind as she lived in the minds of the characters. Over time, she had found such perspectives made her a more patient person, more accepting of others. If everyone had such an appreciation for their fellow man, perhaps things such as war would not exist.

You can’t save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.

Ugliness in a person was not born, but created.

There was a special scent to paper and ink, indescribable and unknown to anyone but a true reader. She brought the book to her face, closed her eyes and breathed in that wonderful smell.

It's going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It's living a life you weren't born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else's perspective. It's learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed...I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.

No one told her finishing the book would leave her so bereft. It was as though she’d said goodbye for the last time to a close friend.

Never apologize for feeling.

Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.

Books are what have brought us together. A love of the stories within, the adventures they take us on, their glorious distraction in a time of strife. And a reminder that we always have hope.

It doesn’t matter how you fight, but that you never, never stop.

...his mistreatment had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with him.

But it was true how anger could be used to mask hurt, especially when hurt was such a very vulnerable emotion.

It is through books that we can find the greatest hope,

But as much as she loved reading the story, no one had prepared her for the end being so bittersweet. No one told her finishing the book would leave her so bereft. It was as though she’d said goodbye for the last time to a close friend.

Word by word, page by page, she was pulled deeper into a place she had never expected and walked in the footsteps of a person she'd never been. (p. 107)

There are many voices Hitler would quiet, especially those who are Jewish.” Mr. Evans slid the new book reverently beside the others. “It is the duty of the rest of the world to ensure they will never be silenced.” He tapped a yellow spine with Almansor in gilt at its top. “‘Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.’ Heinrich Heine isn’t Jewish, but his ideals go against what Hitler believes.

Reading is..." His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. "It's going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It's living a life you weren't born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else's perspective. It's learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed." He hesitated. "I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.

Word after word, page after page, she was pulled deeper into a place she had never experienced and walked in the footsteps of a person she's never been.

Oh, do stop.” Viv waved her hand. “You know full well we were trying to listen in on you. It was quite rude of you both to speak so softly that we couldn’t hear a word.

You can't save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.

I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.

Then let me help you.” She led her to a shelf and withdrew Emma, whose humor made it a particular favorite of Grace’s. “This will have you laughing one minute and sighing wistfully the next.

Yet through it all, she couldn’t dislodge The Count of Monte Cristo from her head. Edmond had only just crawled through the tunnel toward the abbé’s prison cell. What would he find in there? What if they were caught?

You can’t save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.” His mouth lifted at the corners in an almost embarrassed smile. “Such as an old man collecting battered and singed books to keep voices alive.” He set his age-spotted hand on hers, its warmth comforting. “Or finding a story to help a young mother forget her pain.” He removed his hand and straightened. “It doesn’t matter how you fight, but that you never, never stop.

There might be loss, and sometimes there may be fear, but there was also courage to face such challenges. For in a world such as theirs, with people of spirit and love, and with so many different tales of strength and victory to inspire, there would always be hope.

What she found within was nothing like the texts she’d read in school that offered dry accounts of maths or broken down sentence structures and word formation. No, this book, when finally given the proper attention it deserved, somehow locked her in its grasp and did not once let go.

You saw how Ebenezer's unhappy childhood [of A Christmas Carol] made him who he was. Imagine how he might feel if his business burned to the ground." It was an apt comparison between Ebenezer Scrooge and Mrs. Nesbitt to be sure. One Grace had never thought to put together before that moment. But it was true how anger could be used to mask hurt, especially when hurt was such a very vulnerable emotion. Even Mr. Evans had used his gruffness to mask his memories of his daughter when Grace had first started to work at the bookshop. Who knew what Mrs. Nesbitt had experienced in her life to make her so hard and bitter?

The cacophony of war overhead came nonstop and with such intensity, it was impossible to differentiate one sound from the other. Without her wits about her, she might have surrendered to the flicker of panic racing in her mind with every whistle, every thundering boom that reverberated in her chest. They only made her read all the louder.

But in a world as damaged and gray as theirs was now, she would take every speck of pleasure where it could be found. And much pleasure was to be had in reading. Grace cherished the adventures she went on through those pages, an escape from exhaustion and bombs and rationing. Deeper still was the profound understanding for mankind as she lived in the minds of the characters.

She smiled through her tears, opened her book and began to read, bringing them all along with her to a world where there were no bombs. There might be loss, and sometimes there may be fear, but there was also courage to face such challenges. For in a world such as theirs, with people of spirit and love, and with so many different tales of strength and victory to inspire, there would always be hope.

It’s going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that

Grace cherished the adventures she went on through those pages, an escape from exhaustion and bombs and rationing. Deeper still was the profound understanding for mankind as she lived in the minds of the characters. Over time, she had found such perspectives made her a more patient person, more accepting of others. If everyone had such an appreciation for their fellow man, perhaps things such as war would not exist.

Deeper still was the profound understanding for mankind as she lived in the minds of the characters. Over time, she had found such perspectives made her a more patient person, more accepting of others. If everyone had such an appreciation for their fellow man, perhaps things such as war would not exist. Such considerations were easy to muse over there in a rare beam of sunlight, but far more difficult to hold tight to in the blacked-out streets of London with Mr. Stokes. The improved weather brought with it an influx of bombers who sailed easily through the clear skies to unload their destruction.

There are many voices Hitler would quiet, especially those who are Jewish.” Mr. Evans slid the new book reverently beside the others. “It is the duty of the rest of the world to ensure they will never be silenced.” He tapped a yellow spine with Almansor in gilt at its top. “‘Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.’ Heinrich Heine isn’t Jewish, but his ideals go against what Hitler believes.” Mr. Evans pushed the safe door closed with an ominous bang. “This war is about far more than blackouts and food rationing, Miss Bennett.” She swallowed. People were dying to save books, to prevent ideas and people from being snuffed out.

Reading is..." His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. "It's going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It's living a life you weren't born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else's perspective. It's learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed." He hesitated. "I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences." Grace's heart went soft at the poetic affection with which he spoke, finding herself both envious of the books as well as the fulfillment he found in them.

train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something

It is the duty of the rest of the world to ensure they will never be silenced.” He tapped a yellow spine with Almansor in gilt at its top. “‘Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.

Reading is...” His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. “It’s going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.

Hitler and his ‘Nastys

weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.

I’ll try.” He tilted his head and his gaze focused in the distance as he considered his response with apparent care. “Reading is...” His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. “It’s going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.

Reading is...” His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. “It’s going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.” Grace’s heart went soft at the poetic affection with

Suddenly she regarded him in a different light. Not with anger, but compassion. And with the knowledge that his mistreatment had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with him.

There's a war going on Ms. Bennett, you are but one person, so that means that a café is looted, yes, but it didn't burn. You can't save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.

It is the duty of the rest of the world to ensure they will never be silenced.

Ugliness in a person was not born, but created. Perhaps he had endured a hardship that had made him so cruel.

her.

There’s a war going on, Miss Bennett. You are but one person, so sometimes that means a café is looted, yes, but that it didn’t burn. You can’t save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.” His mouth lifted at the corners in an almost embarrassed smile. “Such as an old man collecting battered and singed books to keep voices alive.” He set his age-spotted hand on hers, its warmth comforting. “Or finding a story to help a young mother forget her pain.” He removed his hand and straightened. “It doesn’t matter how you fight, but that you never, never stop.

War is coming and books aren’t what people will be shopping for.

But they’re not just stories, for many of us, they’re a sanctuary.

Word after word, page after page, she was pulled deeper into a place she had never experienced and walked in the footsteps of a person she’d never been.

She wanted to continue reading. Jane’s mettle in the face of homelessness and starvation after leaving Thornfield in Jane Eyre was far easier for Grace to lose herself in than facing her own hardships. But people had to return to their obligations and so must she.

think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.

There were no more WVS meetings or elaborate meals or anything to show she was doing more than simply surviving, as if life was a book full of blank pages to be turned. Uneventful. Holding no purpose but to get to the back cover and be done.

He gave her a little bow. “Good day, Miss Bennet.

The front displays varied from those that were artfully arranged to piles of books stacked in no particular order, all but blocking the interior. If nothing else, perhaps the latter didn’t require blackout curtains. After all, who needed three layers of fabric when one had stacks of books five deep?

It was in that dull gray world where Grace discovered an unexpected ray of sunshine. One afternoon, on a particularly icy day after she’d been given leave from Primrose Hill Books, she found herself in the very peculiar position of having free time. She made herself a cup of tea, snuggled into the Morris chair with a thick blanket over her legs and settled under the weight of The Count of Monte Cristina on her lap.

After a lifetime of farming, she was - as she put it - "jolly well done with dirt.

What the devil happened here? Have we been robbed?" "I tided up," Grace replied. Mr. Evans scowled and glared around the shop. "That's why it's so dusty in here." He waved in front of him with a folded newspaper as though the air itself issued great offense.

I confess, I've thought of this night for many months." George's hand found hers. It was a gentle tough in the dark, followed by the intentional curling of his warm fingers around hers. Her skin tingled with anticipation like the moment of static in the air before a lightning storm. "As have I." "I've enjoyed our letters," he said, his voice low, intimate. "However, I know war can be difficult. If you would prefer to leave yourself open for a man in London -" "No," Grace replied too quickly. They both laughed, shy, nervous chuckles. "I look forward to every letter you write." She ran her thumb over the back of his hand, exploring the newfound closeness. "And whenever I encounter something quizzical or amusing, you and Viv are the first ones I think I must share it with in my next letter." "I have no right to ask you to wait for me." He closed the half step between them, and the air became nearly too thin to breathe. "We don't know how long this war will go on." "You're worth waiting for, George Anderson." Her pulse raced. He lifted his free hand, gently touching the left side of her cheek and lowered his mouth to hers. It was a sweet, tender kiss that robbed her of all thought. He wasn't as eager as Simon Jones had been back in Drayton, and she was glad for it. George wasn't that kind of man. He was thoughtful and careful and put his soul into everything he did. Though the kiss was gentle and light, it touched her in a deep place she knew would forever belong to him.

The familiar scent of paper and ink drew her in as she fell head over heels into a new story. She was so lost in the literary world being spun within her mind, she missed the bell chime at the front door. "I never thought reading could be more beautiful," a familiar, rich voice said. "Until this moment." Grace's head snapped up and the book fell from her hands. "George." He stood several paces away from her, handsome as ever in his neatly pressed RAF uniform, holding a head of purple cabbage. "It appears cabbages are still all the rage in place of flowers.

South Riding by Winifred Holtby,

stores full of dry books were like tinder waiting for a match. Most had fire crawling across their slate roofs, dancing wickedly over their costly wood interiors and stretching out from their shattered windows, the exterior paintwork blackening with soot. Simpkin Marshalls, who often touted their stock of millions of books, burned like a funeral pyre. The building to Grace’s right blazed brighter as though it were igniting from within. Inside, shelves of books were being licked apart by flames as they raced with greedy delight over rows and rows of neatly organized spines. The building seemed to pulse, as if it were a breathing beast, set on devouring everything in its path. Someone called her name and the beast of a building roared, powerful and terrifying.

There was a light in everyone, one that dimmed when death took them, like a torch whose battery ran down. Grace had seen it once before in an old woman crushed by a collapsed building as she’d tried to cling to life. That light in Mr. Evans’s eyes, the one that shone with intelligence, kindness and dry humor—that light that had been so bright and so alive—went out.

You never forget, but it becomes part of you. Like a scar no one can see.

After all, no one in the world had the spirit of the British. They were fighters. They could take it.

If everyone had such an appreciation for their fellow man, perhaps things such as war would not exist.

War was not meant for tender souls.

What do you like best about reading?” His fingertips steepled together and tapped against one another as he thought. “That’s quite the question, like asking me to describe all the colors in a spinning kaleidoscope.

no importa cómo luches, lo importante es que nunca dejes de hacerlo