Because without our language, we have lost ourselves. Who are we without our words?
Someone asked us later, "Didn't you wonder why no one came across you sooner?" Did I wonder? When you see your parents zipped up in black body bags on the Jellicoe Road like they're some kind of garbage, don't you know? Wonder dies.
So between you and me," I tell Justine on the phone that night, "we're either bitchy or stupid." "Oh God," she moans. "Everyone thinks I'm an idiot." "Thanks!
Memory is a funny thing. It tricks you into believing that you've forgotten important moments, and then when you're raking your brain for a bit of information that might make sense of something else, it taps you on the head and says, "Remember when you told me to put that memory in the green rubbish bin? Well, I didn't, I put it in the black recycling tub, and it's coming your way again.
Because photos are testimony that someone did live. A reminder of past we may have loved or hated. A piece of our lives.
You can't think for other people. Nor can you feel for them or be them. They have to do that for themselves.
To have somone hold you could be the greatest medicine of all.
So why would I want someone to be my everything when one day they might not be around?" Jellicoe Road
I want to tell him that deep down each time Hannah looked at him she was grateful it was him because Jude did something that the others didn't. He came back for her.
This is war," he say quietly. "Well thank God you're dressed for it, Griggs.
What kind of freak is this kid who's giggling hysterically with the girls in the neighbouring beds, each with a crush on the other for being the same age when the rest of the world seems so old?
Your friends are at the house.' I sit up, straight. 'Who'? 'I don't know. Weird people. The Sullivan girl, whose father got the Gosford police to pick you up.' 'Siobhan?' 'And another one who's making cups of tea for everyone, and keeping the boy who's telling Luca fart jokes away from the girl who says he's "the last bastion of patriarchal poor taste".' 'Justine, Thomas and Tara.' And the drug fiend, Jimmy, is keeping Mia calm and the Trombal boy's rung about ten times. I don't like his manner on the phone.' 'You won't like any guy's manner on the phone.
According to Dickens, the first rule of human nature is self-preservation and when I forgive him for writing a character as pathetic as Oliver Twist, I'll thank him for the advice.
I want to be sitting in front of my computer, where you can press a button to block out your junk mail. These two are my junk mail.
He takes out a cigarette and offers one to me. "I try not to indulge. It's a filthy habit," I tell him. "I love that word filthy. I love the way you force it out of your mouth like it's some kind of vermin you want to get rid of." "You've had vermin in your mouth?" "You're mean in that way, you know. You don't let anyone get away with pathetic analogies.
I fear that I will do something to bring harm to those I love," Froi said. "So I follow their rules to ensure that I won't." "But what if you bring harm or fail to protect those you don't know? Or don't love? Will you care as much?" "Probably not." "Then choose another bond. One written by yourself. Because it is what you do for strangers that counts in the end.
If we forget who we lost, then we forget who we once were, and if we forget who we once were, we lose sight of who we are now.
Don't ever ask me again if I hate living anywhere with you and Jasmina. This Rock reminds me of the boy I was and being with you in the palace reminds me of the man I want to be.' 'Not just any man,' she whispered. 'A King. Mine.
Are you an idiot, or an idiot?' Gargarin hissed. 'The first one. I really resent being called the second.
In a kinder world," he whispered, "one I promise you I've seen, men and women flirt and dance and love with only the fear of what it would mean without the other in their lives.
Some of us weren't born for rewards, Froi. We were born for sacrifices.
No stories or explanations,' Finnikin had once told him. 'When it comes to women, straight into an apology and you will find the rest of your life bearable.
Who do you hang out with?" Natalia asks, looking over my shoulder. She's always done that. Wherever you are, whoever you are, she'll always look over your shoulder to see if there's someone more exciting to speak to. It used to make me feel paranoid.
He nods. "My mum has one just the same and you have no idea how disturbing it is that it's turning me on.
We were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors," she told him once. "I was paper and she was rock so I lived and she died.
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