Paper Towns, by John Green

I just like listening, just loafing on the grass. And I decide that if we get there on time but don't find her, that's what we'll do: we'll drive around the Catskills and find a place to sit around and hang out, loafing on the grass, talking, telling jokes. Maybe the sure knowledge that she is alive makes all of that possible again--even if I never see proof of it. I can almost imagine a happiness without her, the ability to let her go, to feel our roots are connected even if I never see that leaf of grass again.

Skin Game, by Jim Butcher

His hand moved from my head to my shoulder, and he murmured, "Lord of Hosts, be with this good man and give him the strength to carry on."

I didn't feel anything mystic. There was no surge of magic or power, no flash of light. Just Michael's quiet, steady strength, and the sincerity of the faith in his voice.

Michael still thought I was a good man.

Unbowed, by Wangari Maathai

Trees are living symbols of peace and hope. A tree has roots in the soil yet reaches to the sky. It tells us that in order to aspire we need to be grounded, and that no matter how high we go it is from our roots that we draw sustenance. It is a reminder to all of us who have success that we cannot forget where we came from. It signifies that no matter how powerful we become in government or how many awards we receive, our power and strength and our ability to reach our goals depend on the people, those whose work remains unseen, who are the soil out of which we grow, the shoulders on which we stand.

Fire, by Kristin Cashore

"You're good at love," she said simply, because it seemed to her that it was true. "I'm not so good at love. I'm like a barbed creature. I push everyone I love away."

He shrugged. "I don't mind you pushing me away if it means you love me, little sister."

Graceling, by Kristin Cashore

Katsa raised her eyebrows.

"I'm not going to wear a red dress," she said.

"It's the color of sunrise," Helda said.

"It's the color of blood," Katsa said.

Sighing, Helda carried the dress from the bathing room. "It would look stunning, My Lady," she called, "with your dark hair and your eyes."

Katsa yanked at one of the more stubborn knots in her hair. She spoke to the bubbles gathered on the surface of the water. "If there's anyone I wish to stun at dinner, I'll hit him in the face."

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive--all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.

Montana 1948, by Larry Watson

Who knows--perhaps any region's most dramatic, most sensational stories were not played out in the public view but were confined to small, private places. A doctor's office, say. A white frame house on a quiet street. So no matter what the historical documents might say, I feel free to augment them with whatever lurid or comical fantasy my imagination might concoct. And know that the truth might not be far off.