Words in Deep Blue

We are the books we read and the things we love.

Sometimes science isn't enough. Sometimes you need the poets.

But I love you, and before you say it words do matter. They're not pointless. If they were pointless then they couldn't start revolutions and they wouldn't change history and they wouldn't be the things that you think about every night before you go to sleep. If they were just words we wouldn't listen to songs, we wouldn't beg to be read to when we're kids. If they were just words, then they'd have no meaning and stories wouldn't have been around since before humans could write. We wouldn't have learned to write. If they were just words then people wouldn't fall in love because of them, feel bad because of them, ache because of them, stop aching because of them, have sex, quite a lot of the time, because of them.

But I don’t believe that the future gives us signs. I think that we look back and read the past with the present in our eyes.

A dry, bookless world. It's too bleak to even imagine.

The past is with me; the present is here. The future is unmapped and changeable. Ours for the imagining: spreading out before us. Sunlight filled, deep blue, and the darkness.

There should be a disconnect button you can push when someone leaves: you’ve fucked me over; therefore I no longer love you. I’m not asking for the button to be connected to an ejector seat that removes them from the universe, just one small button that removes them from your heart.

It’s like he’s picking up parts of the world and showing them to me, saying, See? It’s beautiful.

Love of the things that make you happy is steady too--books, words, music, art--these are lights that reappear in a broken universe.

I love lying here with you, under the books.

... all isn't lost. We lose things, but sometimes they come back. Life doesn't always happen in the order you want.

You can’t patch up someone forgetting about you. For the rest of your life you’ll always be worrying that they’ll forget about you the same way they did before. You’ll always know that they’d be a hundred percent fine without you but you wouldn’t be a hundred percent fine without them.

Second hand books have a way of travelling, sure. But what travels forward can come back.

words do matter. They’re not pointless. If they were pointless then they couldn’t start revolutions and they wouldn’t change history and they wouldn’t be the things that you think about every night before you go to sleep. If they were just words we wouldn’t listen to songs,

The bookstore is a building, but it's not only the building. It is the books inside. People are not only their bodies. And if there is no hope of saving the things we love in their original form, we must save them however we can.

That's what we think because we can't imagine what it's like to not exist.

Death is something we shy away from, except in literature or television, when we tend to stare right at it.

Shitness, my sister says, has a momentum that good luck just doesn't have.

And I love you. I love that you read. I love that you love secondhand books. I love pretty much everything about you,

Words matter, in fact. They're not pointless, as you've suggested. If they were pointless, then they couldn't start revolutions and they wouldn't change history. If they were just words, we wouldn't write songs or listen to them. We wouldn't beg to be read to as kids. If they were just words, then stories wouldn't have been around since before we could write. We wouldn't have learned to write. If they were just words, people wouldn't fall in love because of them, feel bad because of them, ache because of them, and stop aching because of them." (p. 210) (Henry Jones)

I like to think of love as being slightly more forgiving than time.

Shakespeare," she says, the light from the bar glinting off her pink hair, "that girl is not for you." "She's my soul mate," I tell her. "Then I am worried about your soul," she says.

He said the seconds were pouring off people, tiny glowing dots pouring from their skins, only no one could see them.

This is the problem,’ she says. ‘With us?’ ‘With everything. No one’s saying what they want.

These must be the most depressing words in the history of love. I tried really hard to love you.

We are the books we read and the things we love...Our ghosts hide in the things we leave behind.

I love books down to the full stops. I love them in a way that’s beyond logic and reason. That’s just the way it is. I love them the way those people in the Letter Library love them. It’s not enough to read, I want to talk through the pages to get to the other side, to get to the person who read them before me. I want to spend my life hunting them, reading them, selling them. I want to serve customers and put the right book in their hands. I want it all. And I want it to go on forever. And if it can’t last then I want to want it right up to the very final second. And I want a girl who wants me the same way. Dust and all.

How do you feel?" Lola asks. "Like I've just had every single one of my organs harvested while I'm still alive." "Good to know you're not overreacting," she says.

No one has anything to get up for. Life's pointless and everyone just gets up anyway. That's how the human race works," she says, and hands me a coffee.