The danger in reviewing and teaching literature for a living (is) you can develop a kind of knee-jerk superiority to the material you're "decoding
Meekly swallowing and assimilating the customs of the more powerful has always been a strategy by which the less powerful have tried to fit in.
Those straight-spined parishioners could justify their exhibitionism by telling themselves that they were setting an example, even educating the rest of us.
I think the influence of books is neither direct and more predictable. Books themselves are too unruly, and so are readers.
Generations of readers, bored with their own alienating, repetitious jobs, have been mesmerized by Crusoe's essential, civilization-building chores.
I have no feelings of guilt regarding the books I have not read and perhaps will never read; I know that my books have unlimited patience. They will wait for me till the end of my days.
Those who scorn you taunt only themselves -- I knew this without reading one word; because in reading one is reminded of the truth man is given at birth -- by man I mean man and woman.
Personally, I am a hedonistic reader; I have never read a book merely because it was ancient. I read books for the aesthetic emotions they offer me, and I ignore the commentaries and criticism.
Antonia José Bolivar préférait ne plus penser, laissant béantes les profondeurs de sa mémoire pour les remplir de bonheur et de tourments d'amour plus éternels que le temps.
I once overheard someone telling someone else "Don't confuse kindness with something else." Even though this was not directed at me, I took heed and never hedged my bets.
We invent fictions in order to live somehow the many lives we would like to lead when we barely have one at our disposal.
I have done what people do, my life makes a reasonable showing. Can I go back to my books now?
My impulse now, as then, is to disagree. The majority of people in this country who haunt bookstores, go to readings and book festivals or simply read in the privacy of their homes are not traumatized exiles.
I have never read The Joy of Crap. Sounds disgusting. I have, however, read The Joy of Sex. Not in a while, but I think it's one of those classics you can come back to again... and again.
Loving you has been worse than an addiction to drugs. At least I don't have the drugs c r a w l i n g into my bed at night.
Her heart may be cracked, but it is pure. She may be jaded, but she is hopeful. She may be broken, but she is strong. She may be here, but she will leave.
In my illustrious career as a university student, I turned in over 100 papers so that one day, in the end, I got 1 paper in return.
It's the person that calls you up because they're eating at ‘our favorite spot,’ and it made them think of you and miss being there with you. That's a friend, to me.
Keeping busy is the hardest part. When I find myself still, clear of thoughts, I can still feel you holding me.
Every morning the first thing I do is serve my husband a bowl full of praises. More then his stomach I try to keep his ego full.
Some of us walk around with a necklace of hope, an armour of sanity, but at the end of the day, they always come off. We reveal our naked, vulnerable, real selves.
