I don’t understand what apps are on my phone. Why do they ask for passwords? Why do they all ask for different passwords? It’s so frustrating that I end up just reading a book every time I try to go online.
My whole life is reading tabloid magazines. It’s really sad, because that’s what my show is all about – what is going on with celebrities. So I have to know everything.
Resolve to edge in a little reading every day, if it is but a single sentence. If you gain fifteen minutes a day, it will make itself felt at the end of the year.
Book! You lie there; the fact is, you books must know your places. You’ll do to give us the bare words and facts, but we come in to supply the thoughts.
READING, n. The general body of what one reads. In our country it consists, as a rule, of Indiana novels, short stories in “dialect” and humor in slang.
I merely say that all reading for pleasure is escape, whether it be Greek, mathematics, astronomy, Benedetto Croce, or The Diary of the Forgotten Man. To say otherwise is to be an intellectual snob, and a juvenile at the art of living.
The character that lasts is an ordinary guy with some extraordinary qualities.
All reading for pleasure is entertainment.
At least half the mystery novels published violate the law that the solution, once revealed, must seem to be inevitable.
The flood of print has turned reading into a process of gulping rather than savoring.
The worst that can be said about pornography is that it leads not to anti-social acts but to the reading of more pornography.
I don’t think contemporary writers spend a lot of time reading each other. Particularly writers of the same nationality.
Reading was like a drug, a dope. The novels created moods in which I lived for days.
It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling something new, of being affected by something that made the look of the world different.
Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed?
It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale.
Love so sprang at her, she honestly thought no one had ever looked into it. Where was it in literature? Someone would have written something. She must not have recognized it. Time to read everything again.
I wake up thinking: What am I reading? What will I read next? I’m terrified that I’ll run out, that I will read through all I want to, and be forced to learn wildflowers at last, to keep awake.
A book worth reading is worth buying.
True taste is forever growing, learning, reading, worshipping, laying its hand upon its mouth because it is astonished, casting its shoes from off its feet because it finds all ground holy.