“Cute kid. Dimples, curls, he’s like a male Shirley Temple.”

“I like the scars because I like the stories. Bravery, stupidity, pain—none of them come free.”

“He probably hadn't written it. I knew that. I certainly hadn't written mine. But after yesterday, his pompous sneer was permanently imprinted on my brain, and I could just picture him sitting at a computer and stringing together sentences like, "His golden tone and tender touch have moved audiences across the continent to tears." I was half-surprised it didn't claim his vibrato could cure cancer.”

“I don’t know a thing about jazz.” “That’s okay.” He pulled me toward the door and opened it. “You know music. Jazz will explain itself.”

“That's to British," I countered."What is?""Making sweeping generalizations about Americans because that makes you feel better about having a national inferiority complex the size of the Atlantic Ocean. I was just trying to be helpful, but if folding your pizza threatens you sense of patriotism, you probably shouldn't do it.”

“How about I give you a hin instead?""Sure. I'm sure a hint's all I need anyway.""You think you're pretty smart then?" he said, his voice somewhere between playful and cocky."I only have to be smarter than you think I am, right?""...well now I'm in a position where I have to make it impossibly hard if I don't want to insult you. That wasn't smart at all.""Oh, wow, just give me the hint already.”

“The violin wasn't alive. It wasn't a baby or an animal, not living. But that would be easier to believe if I hadn't felt it breathe and sing.”