“He had brought nothing to read except The Tibetan Book of the Dead, hoping to find its exotic iconography ridiculous enough to purge any fantasies he might still cling to about consciousness continuing after death.”

“He read at wine, he read in bed, He read aloud, had he the breath, His every thought was with the dead, And so he read himself to death.”

“Being a stranger was like being dead,
and brought to mind how, in a book he had read
that most folks misunderstood one common state:
The flip side of love is indifference, not hate.”

“It was the kind of library
he had only read about in books.”

“Of course he could do nothing about what I had wrote because it was the last day of school, and so he left me, saying he was still ‘gracious’ enough to let me continue with the prom, and letting me off scot-free, the way it should be.”

“.. he continues to cling to the forlorn hope that I will turn into one of those swooning females… and fling myself squeeling at him whenever anything happens. Like all men, he clings to his illusions.”

“News is what a chap who doesn't care much about anything wants to read. And it's only news until he's read it. After that it's dead.”

“He had thought about it. Mostly, after the fantasies, he had let it go. It was done, history. No point in bumping into the furniture while looking back over your shoulder.”

“sometimes after I finished a particularly good book, I had the urge to get the library card, find out who else had read the book, and track them down to talk about it”

“He deserved to die except that nothing deserves death.”