I present a passage from HarperCollins Canada‘s The Restoration Artist by Lewis DeSoto.

A realization hit me. Someone had made this. Someone took a brush and dipped it in paint and touched it to the canvas, making these marks and shapes and colours. And he made the world in the picture appear. It was a kind of magic A hand had made this. A hand like any other, even mine. I looked down at my own fingers, almost expecting to see a trace of paint on my knuckle. 

That’s one of the amazing things great books like this do—they just don’t get you to see the world differently, they get you to look at people, the people around you, differently.

I present a passage from House of Anansi‘s Winter: Five Windows on the Season by Adam Gopnik.

For the final truth about snowflakes is that they become more individual as they fall; that, buffeted by wind and time, they are translated, as if by magic, into ever stranger and more complex patterns, until at last they touch earth. Then, like us, they melt.

I present a passage from Hyperion‘s The Time Keeper by Mitch Albom.

Man alone measures time. Man alone chimes the hour. And, because of this, man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures. A fear of time running out.

I present a passage from Hyperion‘s Sutton by J.R. Moehringer.

And he didn’t always care if his stories were true.

Is that bad?

Not necessarily. Truth has its place. In a courtroom, certainly. A boardroom. But in a story? I don’t know. I think truth is in the listener. Truth is something the listener bestows on a story—or not.

I present a passage from Random House of Canada‘s Luka and the Fire of Life by Salman Rushdie.

We do not know the answers to the great questions of who we are and what we are capable of,” Rashid liked to say, “until the questions are asked. Then and only then do we know if we can answer them, or not.

I present a passage from HarperCollins Canada‘s The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

To realize one’s destiny is a person’s only real obligation.

I present a passage from HarperCollins‘ To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.

“This case, Tom Robinson’s case, is something that goes to the essence of a man’s conscience—Scout, I couldn’t go to church and worship God if I didn’t try to help that man.”

“Atticus, you must be wrong. . . .”

“How’s that?”

“Well, most folks seem to think they’re right and you’re wrong. . . .”

“They’re certainly entitled to think that, and they’re entitled to full respect for their opinions,” said Atticus, “but before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.”

I present a passage from Candlewick Press‘s A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness. Inspired by an idea from Siobhan Dowd.

Nevertheless, the monster said, standing, the roof beams of his grandma’s office seeming to sigh with relief, that is what will happen after the third tale.

“Great,” Conor said. “Another story when there are more important things going on.”

Stories are important, the monster said. They can be more important than anything. If they carry the truth.

“Life writing,” Conor said, sourly, under his breath.

The monster looked surprised. Indeed, it said.

I present a passage from House of Anansi‘s Winter by Adam Gopnik.

Winter is, once again, the white page on which we write our hearts. They would look different on a greener page.

50 Book Pledge | Book #5: This Dark Endeavour by Kenneth Oppel
 

I present a passage from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams.

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse, “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

What am I reading now? Luka and the Fire of Life by Salman Rushdie
 

I present a passage from The Lorax by Dr. Seuss.

UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.

What am I reading now? In The Bag! by Monica Kulling
 

I present a passage from Inkheart by Cornelia Funke.

Some books should be tasted,

some devoured,

but only a few should be

chewed and digested thoroughly.

I present a passage from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling.

But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew — and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents — that there was all the difference in the world.

I present “Invitation” from Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein.

If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hoper, a prayer, a magic bean buyer,
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!