Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

A slightly stunned silence greeted the end of this speech, then Ron said, "One person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode."

Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have," said Hermione nastily, picking up her quill again.

"She was the one who started it," said Harry. "I wouldn't've ---she just sort of came at me ---and the next thing she's crying all over me --- I didn't know what to do ---"

It was unbearable, he would not think about it, he could not stand it. . . . There was a terrible hollow inside him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished. He did not want to have to be alone with that great, silent space, he could not stand it.

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

What a delightful book in structure, writing, and thinking. I want a sequel, Jacqueline Kelly! I need to know if Calpurnia achieved her dreams.

They [the dogs] got up long enough to slurp at the water trough and then flopped down again, raising puffs of dust in their shallow hollows.

Then a hummingbird careened around the corner of the house and plunged into the trumpet of the nearest lily drooping in the heat.

We heard the piano start up in the parlor, a limpid, haunting melody; Harry had been pressed into playing for our visitors.

Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

But the happiness remained in his heart, soft and warm like a young bird's downy plumage.

"Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several time?" Mo had said when , on Meggie's last birthday, they were looking at all her dear old books again. "As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells . . . and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower . . . both strange and familiar."

The whole secret, Meggie," Mo had once told her, "is in the breathing. It gives your voice strength and fills it with your life. And not just yours. Sometimes it feels as if when you take a breath you are breathing in everything around you, everything that makes up the world and moves it, and then it all flows into the words."

Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen

I probably wouldn't have told him about Mr. Finnegan or Uncle David or why the yard was such a mess if he hadn't asked me about moving. But since he had, well, I wound up telling him everything. And it felt like blowing a dandelion into the wind and watching all the little seeds float off, up and away.

Power Trip by Amanda Little

The article described [William Levitt] as foolishly overconfident: "At 43, the leader of the U.S. housing revolution is a cocky, rambunctious hustler with brown hair, cow-sad eyes, a hoarse voice (from smoking three packs of cigarettes a day), and a liking for hyperbole that causes him to describe his height (5 ft. 8 in.) as 'nearly six feet' and his company as the 'General Motors of the housing industry.'"

The best way to change the order of things, most believe, is not to complain that the old system doesn't work but to demonstrate the virtues of a new system. "Dr. King didn't build a movement by saying 'I have a complaint,'" said Van Jones.

The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg by Rodman Philbrick

He don't laugh that much, being a serious-minded person, but when he does, it feels like someone gave you a silver dollar, because it's bright and shiny and rings true.

Inkheart by Cornelia Funke

"If you take a book with you on a journey," Mo said when he put the first one in her box, "an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it . . . yes, books are like flypaper--memories cling to the printed page better than anything else." (p. 15)

It was dark, but the night was growing paler as if lifting her skirts a little way off to let the new morning appear. (p. 214)