Quote

In those days, Christmas still retained a certain aura of magic and mystery. The powdery light of winter, the hopeful expressions of people who lived among shadows and silence, lent that setting a slight air of promise in which at least children and those who had learned the art of forgetting could still believe.

Carlos Ruiz Zafon

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Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Age: 55 †
Born: 1964
Born: September 25
Died: 2020
Died: June 19
Novelist
Publicist
Screenwriter
Barcelona
Spain
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Believe
Days
Promise
Hopeful
Lent
People
Forget
Mystery
Settings
Retained
Art
Among
Christmas
Aura
Light
Magic
Setting
Auras
Stills
Expression
Winter
Expressions
Certain
Silence
Shadow
Slight
Still
Learned
Air
Forgetting
Children
Least
Lived
Shadows

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The teachers tried everything, even pleading, but Tomas was in the habit of addressing them only in Latin, a language he spoke with papal fluency and in which he did not stammer. Sooner or later they all resigned in despair, fearing he might be possessed: he might be spouting demonic instructions in Aramaic at them, for all they knew.
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A good father. A man with a head, a heart, and a soul. A man capable of listening, of leading and respecting a child, and not of drowning his own defects in him. Someone whom a child will not only love because he's his father, but will also admire for the person he is. Someone he would want to grow up to resemble.
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People tend to complicate their own lives, as if living weren't already complicated enough.
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Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
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It's the student who makes the teacher, not the other way around.
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I became a writer, a teller of tales, because otherwise I would have died... or worse.
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To truly hate is an art one learns with time.
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Truth is, only the useless get to the top in this country.
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The Cemetery of Forgotten Books is like the greatest, most fantastic library you could ever imagine. Its a labyrinth of books with tunnels, bridges, arches, secret sections - and its hidden inside an old palace in the old city of Barcelona.
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A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.
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Over time, loneliness gets inside you and doesn't go away.
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Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it.
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In small towns, news travels at the speed of boredom.
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In my schoolboy reveries, we were always two fugitives riding on the spine of a book, eager to escape into worlds of fiction and secondhand dreams.
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As it unfolded, the structure of the story began to remind me of one of those Russian dolls that contain innumerable ever-smaller dolls within. Step by step the narrative split into a thousand stories, as if it had entered a gallery of mirrors, its identity fragmented into endless reflections.
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The most despicable humans are the ones who always feel virtuous and look down on the rest of the world.
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Driven by a wish to save Tomás from a life of penury and misunderstanding, Fermin had decided that he needed to develop my friend's latent conversational and social skills. Like the good ape he is, man is a social animal, characterized by cronyism, nepotism, corruption, and gossip. That's the intrinsic blueprint for our ethical behavior.
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Does the madman know he is mad? Or are the madmen those who insist o. Convincing him of his unreason in order to safeguard their own idea of reality?
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All I know is that once Julián told the kids in the building that he had a sister only he could see. He said she came out of mirrors as if she were made of thin air and that she lived with Satan himself in a palace at the bottom of a lake.
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A good friend once told me that the problems are like cockroaches. If drawn to light, they'll get scared.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon