Claire loved early evening in the hotel the best. Between five and six, when the sun slanted in through the windows, it had a sort of sleepiness combined with a sense of expectation. As the kitchen launched into preparation and the barman filled his ice bucket and laid out bowls of olives, guests retired to their rooms, relaxing on their beds for a quick power nap, or watching the news, or putting on make-up over sun-kissed skin, or making lazy holiday love.

So that was why people read. Because books explained things: how you thought, and how you behaved, and made you realise you were not alone in doing what you did or feeling what you felt.

It was the sort of bookshop that stole time...

There would be less passion, certainly, but how much easier to manage your life, your career, your family with someone whom you loved and respected, but who didn’t haunt your every waking hour.

The whole point of life was you couldn’t ever be sure what would happen next. Sometimes what happened was good, sometimes not, but there were always surprises.

I don’t know anyone who can’t learn something from The Little Prince.

Because happy people don’t try to make other people feel bad.

She knew now that everyone had heartbreak in their life at some point. What had happened didn’t make her special or unusual. It was part of being human. A broken heart was, after all, the source material of myriad books. Some of those books had become her comfort, and had made her realize she was not alone.

I have lots of favorites. That’s the trouble with books. You can never choose your favorite. It changes depending on your mood.

There’s a book for everyone, even if they don’t think there is. A book that reaches in and grabs your soul.