The Door-to-Door Bookstore

Those books which lie closest to our hearts are precisely the books we should give away, so that they may bring others happiness.

It has been said that books find their own readers—but sometimes they need someone to show them the way.

Reading a lot doesn’t make you an intellectual, any more than eating a lot makes you a gourmet. I’m an egotist, reading purely for my own pleasure, out of love for good stories, not to learn something about the world.

Even when an extraordinary book ends at precisely the right point, with precisely the right words, and anything further would only destroy that perfection, it still leaves us wanting more pages. That is the paradox of reading.

I’m so glad there are books in the world. I hope that’s one thing that never changes!

You see, there is no book that can please everyone. And if there were, it would be a bad book. You can’t be everyone’s friend, because everyone is different. You’d have to be completely lacking in personality, no rough edges or sharp corners. But even then, many people wouldn’t like you, because they need rough edges and sharp corners. … Every person needs different books. Because what one person loves with all their heart, might leave another completely cold.

You need to read more. It makes the brain flexible, so that anything can fit into it.

I refuse to patronize anyone. Everyone is free in their choice of books. That's the most marvellous thing about it. So much is dictated to us in life; at least we can still choose what we read.

Do you know, people are increasingly neglecting to read? And yet between those covers, you’ll find people, their stories. Within each book lies a heart that begins to beat when someone reads it, because it makes a connection with the reader.

He’d often dreamed of dying while reading, with a book in his hand so riveting, the transition from life to death passed him by unnoticed.

You know, said the Reader, life is often like that. Sometimes there is kissing and sometimes the kissing stops. The only difference between a novel with a happy ending and one without is the point at which you cease to tell the story.

Paper is carbon, he thought. We humans are the same. Books and humans are made of the same stuff.

Son los que les he puesto yo. Me parecen más apropiados. La gente a la que le gusta leer se merece el nombre de un personaje de novela.

But sometimes life doesn’t allow us too much happiness all at once, as if it was a commodity to be frugal with, for fear of hubris.

I’m sure you’ve heard what Charlie Chaplin said, ‘A day without laughter is a day wasted.’ We have so few days on this earth, we can’t afford to lose any.

Inside, one late summer’s day, the question that is the raison d’être of every bookshop was being asked: “Can you recommend a good book?

Although he could barely hold the weight of a hardback book, he couldn't abide paperbacks. Only a hardcover felt protective enough for the valuable words inside keeping them safe from harm. Now that he felt so unprotected himself, with Time and Death gnawing at his every extremity, he wanted security at least for the words that acted as his companion for this brief time.

Some families show their love with food-an extra thick layer of butter on your bread, or a second slice of wurst on top. Others hold each other close and often, sharing warmth to keep the cold of the outside world at bay. For generations, my family have shown their love through books.

The only difference between a novel with a happy ending and one without is the point at which you cease telling the story.

Yet as far as we know, crying is unknown in the animal kingdom - it's uniquely human. Wherever we are from, whatever language we speak, all humans cry. From that perspective, Carl had not been human for many years, since the day he had forgotten how to cry.

He was unaware that tears had begun streaming from his eyes. Viewed under a microscope, emotional tears look different from those we produce as a reflex to strong winds or chopped onions, which prevent our eyes from drying out, or irritants from entering. Yet as far as we know, crying is unknown in the animal kingdom—it’s uniquely human. Wherever we are from, whatever language we speak, all humans cry. From that perspective, Carl had not been human for many years, since the day he had forgotten how to cry.

The knowledge that you’re doing something for the last time lends even the simplest tasks an air of significance. Never before had Carl folded the corners of the packing paper into such sharp creases, or aligned the edges so precisely. He saved Effi’s book for last, wrapping it with such care and tenderness, he might have been swaddling a baby. Holding it in his hands, he couldn’t help thinking how light it was. A whole life story was contained within its pages, yet it weighed less than a pound.

He never watched the news, never listened to the radio, never read a newspaper. He would have been the first to admit that he had lost touch with the world. It had been a deliberate decision, once all the reports of incompetent state leaders, ice cap melt, and suffering refugees had begun to sadden him more than the most tragic literary family saga ever could. It had been a form of self-preservation, even though his world had shrunk as a result.