"When you open a book," the sentimental library posters said, "anything can happen." This was so. A book of fiction was a bomb. It was a land mine you wanted to go off. You wanted it to blow your whole day. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands of books were duds. They had been rusting out of everyone's way for so long that they no longer worked. There was no way to distinguish the duds from the live mines except to throw yourself at them headlong, one by one. --Annie Dillard, An American Childhood

I would like to live to be a hunded because loving and being loved are so good and there are so many books; but were I to learn now that I had only a week left, I would finish today's spell of writing, have the cup of coffee that I crave and go on with the one book I'm reading. --John Tittensor, Year One: A Record

February 23, 2010

The Magician's Elephant

by Kate DiCamillo

"But that is impossible," said Peter.
"Magic is always impossible," said the magician. "It begins with the impossible and ends with the impossible and is impossible in between. That is why it is magic."

January 12, 2010

Moving Beyond Depression

by Dr. Gregory Jantz

I am brave enough to understand my pain. I am strong enough to move beyond it.

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When you change your direction, you change your destiny.

January 8, 2010

The Goose Girl

by Shannon Hale
Poor gosling. It hurts to be lost. And worse to be home with no kind of homecoming... I'll be lucky if I can do as well as you when all this's done; just a bit out of breath, a bit bruised and scratched, a bit wiser and sadder for it all.

January 1, 2010

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

by Stephen Chbosky
I guess we are who we are for alot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there.

December 25, 2009

The Book Thief

by Markus Zusak
A SMALL THEORY
People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-splat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

December 8, 2009

The Air We Breathe

by Andrea Barrett
On their last few drives she'd spoken little and answered his questions tersely, trying to act more like an employee than a companion, but he'd sensed nothing. Oblivious, like all the antiques: her mother, Eudora's parents, Mr. Baum who sold her fabric and buttons, the fat geese who ran the village with their swollen middles and scrawny necks. All of them sure they knew how the world worked, unaware that their advice was useless and that they had nothing to say to her. What did they know about what she felt, what she needed, how the world was shimmering beyond these mountains, waiting for her to grasp it? They'd forgotten everything important about being alive.

November 28, 2009

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane

by Kate DiCamillo

"So," said Pellegrina. She coughed. "And so. The story begins with a princess."
"A beautiful princess?" Abilene asked.
"A very beautiful princess."
"How beautiful?"
"You must listen," said Pellegrina. "It is all in the story."