Books are the only place where even your imagination has an imagination. You can hear things the way you think they sound. You see faces the way faces aren’t meant to be seen. You can even smell smells through every page you turn. You paint a picture in your head, by words written by the writer. It is your private world. And no one else is invited.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
Robert M. Pirsig
A Moveable FeastErnest Hemingway
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Interpreter of maladies
A Farewell to ArmsHemingway, Ernest