Books Have Led Some To Learning And

Gold, Silver, Jewels, Purple Garments, Houses Built Of Marble, Groomed Estates, Pious Paintings, Caparisoned Steeds, And Other Things Of This Kind Offer A Mutable And Superficial Pleasure; Books Give Delight To The Very Marrow Of One's Bones. They Speak To Us, Consult With Us, And Join With Us In A Living And Intense Intimacy.

The End Of Doubt Is The Beginning Of Repose.

For Style Beyond The Genius Never Dares.

In My Younger Days I Struggled Constantly With An Overwhelming But Pure Love Affair - My Only One, And I Would Have Struggled With It Longer Had Not Premature Death, Bitter But Salutary For Me, Extinguished The Cooling Flames. I Certainly Wish I Could Say That I Have Always Been Entirely Free From Desires Of The Flesh, But I Would Be Lying If I Did.

Books Never Pall On Me. They Discourse With Us, They Take Counsel With Us, And Are United To Us By A Certain Living Chatty Familiarity. And Not Only Does Each Book Inspire The Sense That It Belongs To Its Readers, But It Also Suggests The Name Of Others, And One Begets The Desire Of The Other.