“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.”

I have an appetite for silence.

I am nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody, too?

Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.

The Soul selects her own Society.

But a Book is only the Heart’s Portrait- every Page a Pulse.

Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.

That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.

The possible’s slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.

Judge tenderly of me.

The only Commandment I ever obeyed – ‘Consider the Lilies.

I felt it shelter to speak to you.

People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.

They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.

This is my letter to the world that never wrote to me.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

Does not Eternity appear dreadful to you. I often get to thinking of it and it seems so dark to me that I almost wish there was no Eternity. To think that we must forever live and never cease to be. It seems as if Death would be a relief to so endless a state of existence.

Books make great gifts because they have whole worlds inside of them. And it’s much cheaper to buy somebody a book than it is to buy them the whole world!

Let me control the textbooks, and I will control the state.

I hate being all tidy like a book in a library where nobody reads – prison is horribly like that.

Books were safer than other people anyway.

There are two motives for reading a book; one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it.

Words build bridges into unexplored regions.

I don’t write a book so that it will be the final word; I write a book so that other books are possible, not necessarily written by me.

Home is you, me and, the road with books for life.