It is clear that the books owned the shop rather than the other way about. Everywhere they had run wild and taken possession of their habitat, breeding and multiplying, and clearly lacking any strong hand to keep them down.

One little Indian left all alone, he went out and hanged himself and then there were none.

I just love the smell of an old book store and the feel of the crisp pages along my fingertips.

A place is not really a place without a bookstore.

Standing there, staring at the long shelves crammed with books, I felt myself relax and was suddenly at peace.

Jake went in, aware that he had, for the first time in three weeks, opened a door without hoping madly to find another world on the other side. A bell jingled overhead. The mild, spicy smell of old books hit him, and the smell was somehow like coming home.