It’s good to be reminded that the world is full of stories that are, potentially, at least as painful as yours.

God, I don’t love much but I love words.

This is why I don’t like talking to people. I never think of anything interesting to say. I need time to find words, and that’s hard when people are looking at me. Also, I don’t like people much. Well, some are okay. But not enough to make it a given.

Nobody bothers children who read.

One thing I was realizing from seeing Rob was that, if you don’t talk about your past, and you work in a bookshop, then your topics of conversation are basically 1. Books I’ve read and liked and why. 2. Books I’ve read and not liked and why. 3. Books I want to read, but haven’t yet, and why. 4. Books I have decided not to read and why.

Ask the questions you want to ask. Seek out the people you want in your life. It might not be as hard as you think.

There’s the simple love of books, of course: the knowledge that here is an escape, a chance to learn, a place for your heart and mind to romp and play.

I suppose it’s the fact that these small memories come from the kind of tiny reminders that you simply can’t predict, and so can’t protect yourself from, and they catch you, paper cuts across the heart.

It had been a heaven of a place to grow up: seagulls, beach, and nooks and crannies; the feeling, when the town was full of tourists, that you were lucky because this place was your home.

Wouldn’t you be spooked? If you were in my position – oh, never mind, you wouldn’t be in my position.