“‘A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies’, said Jojen. ‘The man who never reads lives only one. The singers of the forest had no books. No ink, no parchment, no written language. Instead they had the trees, and the weirwoods above all. When they died, they went into the wood, into leaf and limb and root, and the trees remembered.'” (George R. R. Martin, A Dance With Dragons)
“People observe the colours of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it’s quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colours. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.” (Markus Zusak; The Book Thief)
“Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.” (Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray)
“‘Only as you gasp your dying breath shall you understand, your life amounted to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean!’ Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?” (David Mitchell; Cloud Atlas)
“Most of the people approach life in a wrong way. They believe to align it with their wishes. But in truth it’s their fears they align it with. With what they don’t want.” (Khaled Hosseini; And the Mountains Echoed)
“Alice came to a fork in the road. ‘Which road do I take?’, she asked.
‘Where do you want to go?’, responded the Cheshire Cat.
‘I don’t know’, Alice answered.
‘Then’, said the Cat, ‘it doesn’t matter.’” (Lewis Carroll: Alice in Wonderland)
“Is there actually a word for this kind of inner conflict that overcomes you when you plan to go on a longer journey, but still have the possibility not to do it? The spirit seems to split in two parts: A courageous and youthful part of the brain that boldly, curiously and adventuresomely wants to break out of familiar conditions. And a risk-averse, convenient and matured part, that would rather anxiously stick to the familiar surroundings. But shortly after I decided to name this self-conscious wanderlust ‘Invakanz’ it disappeared with every step in fresh air like a slight headache.” (Walter Moers: The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books)