library 1, 2, 3...

Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, We see ourselves being translated more & more into the form of information

That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. Writers treat me like Coltrane, insane.

The weekend at the college didn't turn out like you planned. People can lose their lives in libraries. They ought to be warned.

Mr. Babbage, if you put into the machine wrong figures, will the right answers come out? I'm electricity, or light, or whatever bullshit you said I am.

by now almost nothing that happens benefits storytelling; almost everything benefits information, For storytelling is always the art of repeated stories

So voluble a weapon is the tongue;, The signals don't seem right, it lasts for just one night and then

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen, #Librarians will

I also learned the science of letters as it was taught to the stranger, I mean, the matter that you read, my lord

You been tellin' me you're a genius since you were seventeen, Don't let's do anything. It's safer.

ADIEU, New England's smiling meads, Let us not waste our time in idle discourse!

Save the time of the #reader, Tables, they turn sometimes, oh, someday

You go back Jack do it again, Gonna’ break it on down, gonna' kick it root down

But for that Book, we could not know right from wrong, It is not only the violin that shapes the violinist, we are all shaped by the tools we train ourselves to use

Paradise will be a kind of library, You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read

I just wanna sink to the bottom with you (sink to the bottom with you), found on the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles of dress and some books

Nick chided a censor, who wished some books gone, and suggested she scan Fahrenheit 451, The summer that I broke my arm I waited for your letter

The summer that I broke my arm I waited for your letter, (Think) Let your mind go, let yourself be free

I have seen that people must be their own gods and make their own good fortune, moving hungrily from book to book, author to author, age to age

The printing press was at first mistaken for an engine of immortality, That you stole my words of fame / That I wrote in my rhyme sheet

The mediator of the head and the hands must be the heart, And the clock keeps ticking, I'm a modern man

Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element, And I didn't write Sonny or send him anything for a long time