I've Never Had Time To Read. But

By Making Time To Read, Like Making Time To Love, We Expand Our Time For Living.

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.

I Have Never Experienced A Sorrow That Was Not Relieved By An Hour Of Reading.

L’architecture Est Art De Suggestion.

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.