“I'd be a sucker for a guy who wrote me a song,” I said. “Like Beth or Rosanna or Sara. Or Sharona. Is that too much to ask? To be somebody's Sharona?”

“It all began with a fuck. What doesn't? I fucked the wrong person; I fucked up the right one; somebody played me a song. It changed my whole life, that song. That's why I later went to so much trouble to find the guy who wrote and sang it.”

“So, I said I thought the magazine was trying to make him a hero, but then later somebody might dig up something to make him seem like less than a person. And I didn't know why because to me he is just a guy who writes songs that a lot of people like, and I thought that was enough for everyone involved.”

“Don't look at me like that," said Guy."How am I looking at you?" I asked."Like I'm the Grinch who stole Christmas.”

“There are some writers who wrote too much. There are others who wrote enough. There are yet others who wrote nothing like enough to satisfy their admirers, and Jane Austen is certainly one of these.”

“Is this what love feels like?" he whispered to her. "I don't like it, my Beth. It hurts too much.”