Stories were different, though: they came alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by a flashlight beneath a blanket, they had no real existence in our world. They were like seeds in the beak of a bird, waiting to fall to earth, or the notes of a song laid out on a sheet, yearning for an instrument to bring their music into being. They lay dormant, hoping for the chance to emerge. Once someone started to read them, they could begin to change. They could take root in the imagination, and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read, David’s mother would whisper. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life.
From The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly
Basically, if you recommend me a book about books or a book about stories, chances are I will love it and never shut up about it.