reading-books

Sometimes when Rose was reading, she would catch a whiff of the musty smell of her book. She put her nose down in the fold and inhaled deeply so that wonderful smell, the smell of adventure in faraway lands, would fill her up. She rubbed her hand across the pages to feel the velvety surface of the paper. When she closed her eyes, her fingertips could even feel the words that were printed there, each letter raised just a little, almost like the special language that her blind aunt Mary could read.To Rose, a book was as real and alive as if it breathed and walked and spoke.

One reads for pleasure...it is not a public duty.

Every reader wants the same thing: to open the cover of a book and watch the words explode like fireworks off the page.

As any avid reader knew, a good read deserved a good seat.

To think that she had read the same elegiac prose he now beheld with such quiet awe made his heart sing.

He pinched the remaining chapters_ pages delicately between his fingers and sighed. He always hated reaching the end of a good book.

Surround yourself with music. Just be sure to turn the radio on.

Once upon a time in a basement library nook,I stumbled upon my first favorite book.Pulled into adventure as the pages unfurled,I found treasures greater than gold or pearls.

_"Since I could only take six books per visit from the library, I had to time it right, or I'd be stuck on Sundays rereading the five Reader's Digest Condensed Books sitting on our red laquered living room shelf.

I exercised my mental muscles in the library, and lo and behold, I transformed myself from a casual reader into a focused one. So it was more than just free books, but also free space and a culture that reinforced settling down, deep reading, thinking, imagining, and exploring with my mind. I am no doubt a writer today because I had a place to go as a kid, where I knew stories were essential, and where everybody also reveled in the wonder within books.

Caught in the doldrums of August we may have regretted the departing summer, having sighed over the vanished strawberries and all that they signified. Now, however, we look forward almost eagerly to winter's approach. We forget the fogs, the slush, the sore throats an the price of coal, we think only of long evenings by lamplight, of the books which we are really going to read this time, of the bright shop windows and the keen edge of the early frosts.

It wasn't until I started writing that I found a whole new appreciation for reading.

Books are more to treasure than cars.

I am lost in the world of books. So many books to read.

Don't read a book to let the time pass...let the time pass to read a book.

When Manya read, there was no waking her from her absorption; she heard nothing. A whole household might plan to tease and make a noise like all the zoos let loose with tin cans to play with and yet Manya wouldn't hear till her book was done. That was concentration and it was a joyful gift to have seized from the lucky-bag of life.

So many books to read, will I ever finish reading?

If the eye really was a muscle, I had pulled it long ago.