Carmen Agra Deedy Quotes

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."

Silence is best.

With Jackson there was quiet solitude. Just to sit and look at the landscape. An inner quietness. After dinner, to sit on the back porch and look at the light. No need for talking. For any kind of communication.

Quiet is better than loud.

There are few places you can find silence. Air travel could be the last fortress of solitude.

In fact at home I sometimes like to be quiet and hear the sounds of the world outside.

Only silence perfects silence.

I crave a cone of silence every once in while.

That man's silence is wonderful to listen to.

Quietness is the beginning of virtue. To be silent is to be beautiful. Stars do not make a noise.

There is something joyous about not talking.

Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools.

Then everything was still. Absolutely still.

Leaving behind the babble of the plaza, I enter the Library. I feel, almost physically, the gravitation of the books, the enveloping serenity of order, time magically dessicated and preserved.

Quiet is here and all in me. ("Dress of White Silk")

n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s

No more words. In the name of this place we drink in with our breathing, stay quiet like a flower. So the nightbirds will start singing.

To live among such excellent helps as our libraries afford, to have so many silent wise companions whenever we please.

There is something about silence and being in the middle of nowhere that is really very attractive.

In any library in the world, I am at home, unselfconscious, still and absorbed.

...bookstores, libraries... they're the closest thing I have to a church.

There are certain kinds of silence that make you walk on air.

I've always liked libraries. They're quiet and full of books and full of knowledge.

I know that when the world surrenders, pallid, to repose, the murmur of a tranquil stream through the deep silence flows.

And then, at night, the lit lamp and the drawn curtain, with the flutter of the turned page and soft scrape of pen on paper the only sounds to break the silence between quarter- and quarter-chime.