Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words on the other hand, were a lifeline. They left their hushed rhythm behind, a counter to the slow in and out of Emmeline's breathing. — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
And sometimes then he sat with us for an hour or so, sharing our limbo, listening while I read. Books from any shelf, opened at any page, in which I would start and finish anywhere, mid-sentence sometimes. Wuthering Heights ran… — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
“They are more real than the books on the shelves, books that are sketched with the barest hint of a line here and there,… — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
What better way to get to know someone than through her choice and treatment of books? — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
“I have always been a reader; I have read at every stage of my life, and there has never been a time when reading… — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
“Yesterday or the day before, while I had been going about my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person—some stranger—had gone to the… — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
“But perhaps the answer is to stop writing altogether, for when I do write, even now as I write this very sentence, this very… — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover. — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
“He felt something move in his chest, as though an organ had been removed and something unfamiliar left in its place. A sentiment he… — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
