Booksellers Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
i-love-bookstores-booksellers-in-my-novel-dirty-martini-i-thanked-over-3000-booksellers-by-name-in-back-matter
the-connection-between-authors-printers-booksellers-must-be-kept-up-james-boswell
being-writer-can-be-isolating-its-good-to-be-among-readers-booksellers-lev-grossman
ive-always-looked-at-independent-booksellers-in-romantic-light
the-booksellers-are-generous-liberalminded-men-samuel-johnson
typically-booksellers-like-to-put-things-into-neat-little-categories
for-i-bless-god-in-libraries-learned-for-all-booksellers-in-world-christopher-smart
mediocrity-in-poets-has-never-been-tolerated-by-either-men-gods-booksellers-horace
not-gods-nor-men-nor-even-booksellers-have-put-up-with-poets-being-secondrate-horace
dedication-for-librarians-booksellers-everywhere-who-gather-books-build-shelters-for-tender-souls-tessa-dare
higher-ebook-prices-dont-benefit-me-booksellers-readers-that-means-something-is-really-wrong
i-know-many-older-writers-who-were-successful-whose-books-are-now-out-print-you-have-to-go-to-antiquarian-booksellers-to-buy-their-fifth-eighth-william-boyd
i-love-meeting-readers-booksellers-am-beyond-overwhelmed-gratified-at-reception-each-day-feels-like-adventure
booksellers-are-most-valuable-destination-for-lonely-given-numbers-books-written-because-authors-couldnt-find-anyone-to-talk-to-alain-de-botton
my-genrehopping-has-caused-problems-with-marketing-sales-departments-over-years-because-they-need-to-know-where-to-position-book-with-booksellers-f-paul-wilson
booksellers-are-most-valuable-destination-for-lonely-given-numbers-books-that-were-written-because-authors-couldnt-find-anyone-to-talk-to-alain-de-botton
theres-definitely-role-for-online-booksellers-but-they-cant-host-events-bring-people-together-form-personal-relationship-in-way-bricks-mortar-store-its-staff-can
neither-men-nor-gods-nor-booksellers-shelves-permit-ordinary-poets-to-existlat-mediocribus-esse-poetisnon-homines-non-di-non-concessere-columnae-horace
serial-killers-are-everywhere-well-perhaps-not-in-our-neighborhood-but-on-our-television-screens-at-movie-theatres-in-rows-rows-books-at-our-local-borders-barnes-noble-bookseller
You should read the book that you hear two booksellers arguing about at the registers while you're browsing in a bookstore. You should read the book that you see someone on the train reading and trying to hide that they're laughing. You should read the book that you see someone on the train reading and trying to hide that they're crying. You should read the book that you find left behind in the airplane seat pocket, on a park bench, on the bus, at a restaurant, or in a hotel room. You should read the book that you see someone reading for hours in a coffee shop - there when you got there and still there when you left - that made you envious because you were working instead of absorbed in a book. You should read the book you find in your grandparents' house that's inscribed 'To Ray, all my love, Christmas 1949.' You should read the book that you didn't read when it was assigned in your high school English class. You'd probably like it better now anyway. You should read the book whose author happened to mention on Charlie Rose that their favorite band is your favorite band. You should read the book that your favorite band references in their lyrics. You should read the book that your history professor mentions and then says, 'which, by the way, is a great book, ' offhandedly. You should read the book that you loved in high school. Read it again. You should read the book that you find on the library's free cart whose cover makes you laugh. You should read the book whose main character has your first name. You should read the book whose author gets into funny Twitter exchanges with Colson Whitehead. You should read the book about your hometown's history that was published by someone who grew up there. You should read the book your parents give you for your high school graduation. You should read the book you've started a few times and keep meaning to finish once and for all. You should read books with characters you don't like. You should read books about countries you're about to visit. You should read books about historical events you don't know anything about. You should read books about things you already know a little about. You should read books you can't stop hearing about and books you've never heard of. You should read books mentioned in other books. You should read prize-winners, bestsellers, beach reads, book club picks, and classics, when you want to. You should just keep reading.

Janet Potter
you-should-read-book-that-you-hear-two-booksellers-arguing-about-at-registers-while-youre-browsing-in-bookstore-you-should-read-book-that-you-see-someone-on-train-reading-trying-
The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows - minor actors almost invisible from the street - made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the eŽle Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers' stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch's spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn't at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: 'Monsieur Bouvet!

Georges Simenon
the-street-sprinkler-went-past-as-its-rasping-rotary-broom-spread-water-over-tarmac-half-pavement-looked-as-if-it-had-been-painted-with-dark-stain-a-big-yellow-dog-had-mounted-ti
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