Even a paperback printed on acidic paper, whose pages have yellowed ten years on, can still be read, no matter how badly the spine is cracked or how inflated it’s become from being dropped in the bathtub. The pages might separate from the spine, but a rubber band can keep them together. You may loan a book to your circle of closest friends, but shoes are another matter. A great book will never go out of style – books go with every outfit.

My bookstore obsession grew to the point where I’d search for new shops during family trips, as though that were the reason for our travel.

Americans... publish more books than any other country, but the per capita figure is surprisingly low. Of the English-speaking nations, the United States comes in fifth, behind the United Kingdom, Canada, New Zealand, and Australia. The United Kingdom publishes 2,336 books per person, the United States 545.

Books were in the world; the world was in books.

The bookstore and the coffeehouse are natural allies; Neither has a time limit, slowness is encouraged.

We are much more likely to be drawn to a messy bookstore than a neat one because the mess signifies vitality. We are not drawn to a bookstore because of tasteful, Finnish shelves in gunmetal gray mesh, each one displaying three carefully chosen, color-coordinated covers. Clutter – orderly clutter, if possible – is what we expect. Like a city. It’s not quite a city unless there’s more than enough.

Books, I knew then and now, give body to our ideas and imaginations, make them flesh in the world; a bookstore is the city where our fleshed-out inner selves reside.

The technology of the book is much more flexible than film, more user friendly. The reader can dip into the book at will, without electricity, and is always aware of where she is in the book, halfway through, a third of the way, mere pages from the end, her fingers helping to measure the excitement of coming to the conclusion.

Maturity and experience shouldn’t stop one from craving silly things like sliding down bannisters.

Rereading a favorite novel first read 5, 10, or 20 years ago, is a measure of our travel, how far we’ve come; it’s a way of visiting an earlier self.