More often than not, there was healing to be found on the page, sometimes even for ailments the reader hadn’t realized they were suffering from.

"The only difference between a novel with a happy ending and one without is the point at which you cease telling the story."

But even if gifted books were never read, they were still a loving gesture—and a compliment to the intellect and taste of the recipient.

“Have you been crying?” 

“No.” 

“Have you been crying on the inside maybe? Not with tears in your eyes, but like, with your heart?” 

“With tears in my heart?” 

“If that’s a thing, then yes.” 

“In that case, why would my eyes look different?” 

“They’re ashamed, because crying should be their job.”

She had a feeling Carl would sink deeper into melancholy if they didn’t talk to one another. Her questions were life preservers for his thoughts, keeping them with her on the surface.

Even when an extraordinary book ends at precisely the right point, with precisely the right words, and anything further would only destroy that perfection, it still leaves us wanting more pages. That is the paradox of reading.

If she said it often enough, perhaps she would believe it. She had a lot of practice at believing. It wasn’t as easy as people thought. Belief took a lot of effort—every day, given that real life had a tendency to contradict belief.