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But people need lift, too. People don't get moving, they don't soar, they don't achieve great heights, without someone buoying them up.
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Careless talk costs lives.
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The very term "turning pages" suggests nonstop action. But I am all about character and beautiful writing. I eat that up like popcorn. Whether a book is action-packed or not, all I need are well-written prose and quirky, fabulous characters to keep me going.
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And I envied her that she had chosen her work herself and was doing what she wanted to do. I don't suppose I had any idea what I 'wanted' and so I was chosen, not choosing. There's glory and honor in being chosen. But not much room for free will.
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Please come back soon. The window is always open.
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Where I fail in accuracy, I hope I make up for it in plausibility.
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...unless you were doing them a favor by killing them. Then, you'd let them down if you didn't, if you couldn't make yourself.
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This is what’s so heartbreaking: the fact that I am here, alive, has no doubt given Fernande some grain of hope for her daughter. But the fact that I was there makes me sure there isn’t any.
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I felt like one who wants to trap and cage a little bird, and after years of waiting and luring and baiting finds that she must do no more than hold out her hand, and the finch lands on her finger and does not fly. You scarcely dare to move. It rests on your hand whole and free, foolishly trusting and infinitely courageous. It will never be more beautiful.
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Taran. We go down fighting.
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Mary Queen of Scots had a little dog, a Skye terrier, that was devoted to her. Moments after Mary was beheaded, the people who were watching saw her skirts moving about and they thought her headless body was trying to get itself to its feet. But the movement turned out to be her dog, which she had carried to the block with her, hidden in her skirts. Mary Stuart is supposed to have faced her execution with grace and courage (she wore a scarlet chemise to suggest she was being martyred), but I don’t think she could have been so brave if she had not secretly been holding tight to her Skye terrier, feeling his warm, silky fur against her trembling skin.
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How can you grow to love a handful of strangers so fiercely just because you have to sleep on the same couple of wooden planks with them, when half the time you were there you wanted to strangle them, and all you ever talked about is death and imaginary strawberries?
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Maddie held her lightly, thinking she would let go when her friend stopped crying. But she cried for so long that Maddie fell asleep first. So she didn't ever let go.
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It's like being in love, discovering your best friend.
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I realized I would be forced to run away from home if someone tried to arrange a marriage for me. I didn't want to think about it.
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If I am very lucky - I mean if I am clever about it - I will get myself shot. Here, soon.
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For the pleasure of giving, because what's the point of just having? If I give a thing, I remember how happy we both were when I made the gift.
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You can come back to friendship. You can let it drop, for five years or ten years, and come back to it.
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There’s glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will.
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The quick, sudden terror of exploding bombs is not the same as the never-ending, bone-sapping fear of discovery and capture. It never goes away. There isn’t ever any relief, never the possibility of an ‘All Clear’ siren. You always feel a little bit sick inside, knowing the worst might happen at any moment.
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I AM A COWARD.
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The soaring mountains rose around her, and the poets’ waters glittered beneath her in the valleys of memory—hosts of golden daffodils, Swallows and Amazons, Peter Rabbit.
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You know, it set you at war with yourself.
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The fuss made over the chickens at the checkpoints is not to be believed. Unlike me they had their own papers.