Book Selfish Novels & Stories

he called back, his voice warm as sunlight. The sound of the door clicking shut was the last thing I heard before sleep reclaimed me, pulling me back into its embrace. *** I found myself rummaging through a stack of books that likely belonged to Jacob from his university years. None of them were fiction. These were all about life lessons and self-improvement. Titles like Rich Mindset and Atomic Habits caught my eye, their well-worn spines suggesting they had been thoroughly read. But one title stood out above the rest, stopping me cold:

So after eating breakfast, which a girl bought to me, I was staring at the riddle. After no luck, I tried to match the riddle with my life. 'I am what sometimes bring you joy and sometimes sadness. I am what you consider useless after sometime. But I always leave an impact on you. And this time, im here with a secret. Who am I' What bought me happiness and sadness at the same time? Book. What did I consider useless after sometime? Myself. What leaves an impact on me? Book. Book: 2/3 Myself: 1/3

Fuck I miss them too, I hope they don't hate me. "Well I'm back to work now. I'm actually in Paris, first time that I've been back since we were here together, and my god the whole fucking town reminds me of you. I even went to that little bookstore that I took you to, trying to find a little piece of you to keep with me. I found a book that reminded me of you. It's called 'Finding the joy in the smallest things'. That's what you do, you're grateful for the little things in life, you made me grateful for the small things. I found joy in your laugh, your smile, your presence, even finding this stupid little book. But now that I've started reading it I've realised it's one of those self help b

I even found the karma sutra amongst what I can only classify as the ‘self help’ section, opening it and then quickly closing it in case Enzo or his mother entered the room. A large book at the end of the shelf entitled “The Power and Responsibility of Men” caught my eye. It seemed to be more weathered than the rest of the books, but I didn't get why. “Who would be drawn to a book like that?” I asked myself, pulling it from the shelf.

I pull one of the books halfway from the shelf before freezing. My eyes narrow at the title and then it narrows harder. NO WAY! I turn slowly toward him holding the book upward dramatically. “Mercer Hayes,” I say accusingly. “Do you own annotated classics?” His expression remains perfectly calm. “Yes.”He murmurs. “What kind of psychopath highlights books recreationally?”I ask in a gasp in shock. “The intelligent kind.”He murmurs and I gasp out in fake offense. “Oh my God. You’re one of those.”I say smirking my lips pulling into a teasing glint.

Daniel Hart was a chapter closed with no intention of being reread. And then, on a crisp Saturday morning in early October, I met him. The bookstore was nearly empty—one of those independent shops with mismatched chairs, shelves that reached too high, and the scent of cedar and old paper in the air. I went there often, drawn to its quiet corners and anonymity. I was in the psychology aisle, flipping through a worn copy of The Body Keeps the Score, when I heard a voice behind me. “That one saved my life. Or at least explained why I couldn’t sleep for three years.”

I mean, I’m used to my own organized chaos, but this—this feels like I’m trespassing in a space I have no business being in. I throw myself onto the couch—her couch, which, for the record, has zero crumbs on it. It’s like the couch doesn’t even know what a crumb is. I run a hand over the cushions, unsure whether I’m impressed or just slightly intimidated. There’s a stack of books on the coffee table, which is, of course, alphabetized. I grab the one on top and flip through it. It’s one of those self-help books, the kind people like to pretend they don’t need but secretly read every morning before their third cup of coffee.

He raised his eyebrows and moved his lips in what could probably be termed as a smile. "From where did you get it?" he asked, extending his wrinkled hands towards the apple. "Oh, you don't want to know. Let's get started. Which books do you want me to sort today?" "You are not half bad, Shiva. Walk on the straight path, and you will still be able to make something of yourself,” said the old man looking at the boy right in the eyes. Shiva turned away from his gaze, and Ben continued, “Sort out the romantic novels and keep them on this shelf here." He proceeded to explain where all genres had to be placed. The store would open in a few days, the first bookstore in this part of town, albeit of

He knew that selling books was his passion, and he was ascertained that it was the pure profession according to the religion he believed in. Someone would be rich, but no experience of the satisfaction and complacency he had got now. This thought made him rejuvenate. At this time, his young child tried to tug the fringe of his longyi to warn him that it was the time to have lunch which had been brought by his lovely wife. He usually told an interesting philosophy on books: "If you know about books, you don't want to sell them. Selling them out means you sell your own children." Now, he was satisfied with this deal because Lin showed much generosity while he was trying to buy the book from h

She let out a breath, shaking her head as she left the chair before pointing at me. “Let me break it down for you to understand. The bookshop you lockpicked— don't even fucking argue against that. I know for a FACT thai I locked it— and intruded on is MINE and it's on the other side of this room which I ALSO own because I own the entire BUILDING.” She huffed indignantly.