I think that most of us, anyway, read these stories that we know are not ‘true’ because we’re hungry for another kind of truth: the mythic truth about human nature in general, the particular truth about those life-communities that define our own identity, and the most specific truth of all: our own self-story. Fiction, because it is not about someone who lived in the real world, always has the possibility of being about oneself.
To understand a profound thought is to have, at the moment one understands it, a profound thought oneself; and this demands some effort, a genuine descent to the heart of oneself … Only desire and love give us the strength to make this effort. The only books that we truly absorb are those we read with real appetite, after having worked hard to get them, so great had been our need of them.
And he kissed her. Slow, hot and oh so heavy. It wasn’t a kiss of love or romance. It wasn’t probing or questioning. It was simple; conquer. He kissed her like it was all he wanted. He kissed her like it was all that she needed and in that moment it was.
—  Arielle Hudson, The Cherry On Top