Isn’t it odd how much fatter a book gets when you’ve read it several times? As if something was left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells. And then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower, both strange and familiar.
Inkspell, Cornelia Funke