Every reader, as he reads, is actually the reader of himself. The writer's work is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern what he might never have seen in himself without this book.
Stay crazy and behave like normal people.
Sin wasn't born the day Eve picked the apple. That day a splendid virtue was born called disobendience.
Few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later, no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget, we will return.
My great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the
universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not
seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in
the woods: time will change it, (...)a source of little visible delight, but necessary. (...) He's always, always in
my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a
pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of
our separation again: it is impracticable...
But some part of him realized, even as he fought to break free from Lupin, that Sirius had never kept him waiting before. Sirius had risked everything, always, to see Harry, to help him. If Sirius was not reappearing out of that archway when Harry was yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the only possible explanation was that he could not come back... that he really was...
He choose his road, but he kept looking back.
Nature was here something savage and awful, though beautiful. I looked with awe at the ground I trod on, to see what the Powers had made there, the form and fashion and material of theirwork. This was that Earth of which we have heard, made out of Chaos and Old Night. Here was no man's garden, but the unhandselled globe. It was not lawn, nor pasture, nor mead, nor woodland, nor lea, nor arable, nor waste land. It was the fresh and natural surface of the planet Earth, as it was made for ever and ever, to be the dwelling of man, we say, so Nature made it, and man may use it if he can.
No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength. Learning for instance, to eat when he's hungry and sleep when he's sleepy. Also around bedtime was my singing time. I'd pace up and down the well-worn path in the dust of my rock singing all the show tunes I could remember, at the top of my voice too, with nobody to hear except the deer and the bear.
There is a life visible to everyone, and there is another one that only belongs to us, of which nobody knows nothing.
Everyone has his own "not man's land" in which it's the total owner of himself. This doeen't mean at all that, from ethics point of view, one it's moral and the other one is immoral; one is licit and the other one illicit. Simply the man every now and then escapes to any control, he lives in the freedom and the mystery.