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The apartment was entirely, was only, for her: a wall of books, both read and unread, all of them dear to her not only in themselves, their tender spines, but in the moments or periods they evoked… Her self, then, was represented in her books; her times in her records; and the rest of the room she thought of as a pure, blank slate.
— Claire Messud
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Travelling to past lives is like making a hole in the floor and letting the flames of the fire in the apartment below scorch and burn the present
— Paulo Coelho
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