Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures. — Jessamyn West
Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures. — Jessamyn West
Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures. — Jessamyn West
Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures. — Jessamyn West
Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures. — Jessamyn West
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Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.

— Jessamyn West
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More “Books” Quotes

His habit of reading isolated him: it became such a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and res — W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage
Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while — Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess
Reading changes your life. Reading unlocks worlds unknown or forgotten, taking travelers around the world and through ti — Donalyn Miller, The Book Whisperer: Awakening the Inner Reader in Every Child
There is a great deal of difference between an eager man who wants to read a book and a tired man who wants a book to re — G.K. Chesterton
I attempted briefly to consecrate myself in the public library, believing every crack in my soul could be chinked with a — Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible
I only read biographies, metaphysics and psychology. I can dream up my own fiction. — Mae West
I'm pretty sure my addiction to reading has just reached a whole new level. — Colleen Hoover, Hopeless
There never yet have been, nor are there now, too many good books. — Martin Luther
I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert — George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
Books are not about passing time. They're about other lives. Other worlds. Far from wanting time to pass, one just wishe — Alan Bennett, The Uncommon Reader
The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live th — Ursula K. Le Guin, Dancing at the Edge of the World: Thoughts on Words, Women, Places
It's a strange grief… to die of nostalgia for something you you will never live. — Alessandro Baricco, Silk