I Guess Love's Kind Of Like A Marshmallow In A Microwave On High. After It Explodes It's Still A Marshmallow.

She began to fear that she would always be greedy, all the time. Nothing ever seemed to fill her up. Nothing ever seemed to touch the sides.

Funny Girl by Nick Hornby

This is the story of what happened after we all came home, sort of like Dorothy & Co. after Oz. I'm betting you thought everything was peachy for Dorothy once she got home. We forget that Kansas is no safer than Oz. After all, that's where the tornado hit.

'Blood Lines' by Eileen Wilks

“I am haunted by humans.”

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Everything in the world's got a voice; most people don't hear hard enough is all. Sunrise sounds like slow chords dripping from my guitar this morning. Sad chords, in B-flat.

'Chasing Charlie Duskin' by Cath Crowley

As an adult I have often known that peculiar legacy time brings to the traveller: the longing to seek out a place a second time, to find deliberately what we stumbled on once before, to recapture the feeling of discovery. Sometimes we search out again even a place that was not remarkable itself - we look for it simply because we remember it. If we do find it, of course, everything is different. The rough-hewn door is still there, but it's much smaller; the day is cloudy instead of brilliant; it's spring instead of autumn; we're alone instead of with three friends. Or worse, with three friends instead of alone.

'The Historian' by Elizabeth Kostova

Oh nothing, just Paul McCartney casually predicting the misogynistic blame-game the media put on Yoko Ono …