Each day is a little life: every waking and rising a little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every going to rest and sleep a little death. – Arthur Schopenhauer
A large, still book is a piece of quietness, succulent and nourishing in a noisy world, which I approach and imbibe with “a sort of greedy enjoyment,” as Marcel Proust said of those rooms of his old home whose air was “saturated with the bouquet of silence.” – Holbrook Jackson
