“Seeing the future sounds cool until you get this two-second flash and have no idea what it means, or if it will really happen.”
“I wasn’t a witch until last Wednesday,” Lauren said. “I don’t know how to handle this.” “You’ve always been a witch, sweetheart. You just didn’t know.”
“Friends who can accept you, even when the rules change like that, are gold.”
“the best conversations wandered and twisted around. Sometimes you learn more that way than traveling in straight lines. ”
“Nat gave her a lopsided grin. “Something like that.” “This is one weird February.”
“She yanked open the door of the bagel shop and gratefully charged inside. Her mind reeled. Too many voices, too many feelings, too much. Lauren felt her stomach churning and clutched the door handle. She focused on the handle. That was the way out. The three steps to carry her back out the door were a marathon. When the door closed, she sank to her knees.”
“ “I’m pretty sure if it weren’t for you, I’d have spent the rest of my life terrified of crowded places. I can’t thank you enough.”
“In theory, a coven is just a group of witches working together.” Jamie looked pained. “In practice?” “In practice, it tends to be really heavy on ritual, really light on actual magic.”
“It’s because I’m a witch that I can take these pictures,” Jennie said. “A good portrait photographer shows the outside of a person; a great one shows the inside. Being a mind witch makes it a little easier to see the inside, to know what the photograph needs to show.”
“As instructed, she visualized the first moves in her mind, and then began. No words—her class was supposed to be reading the pictures in her mind. Knees bend, arms sweep up, breathe in. Stretch for the gorgeous blue sky and feel the warmth. Breathe out, arms sweep down and to heart center. Repeat.”
“I have new batteries in the iPod, so she can have her own personal force field back. ”
“In wars, boy, fools kill other fools for foolish causes. That’s enough for anyone to know.”
“It´s a good thing when a man is different from your image of him. Is shows he isn´t a type. If he were, it would be the end of him as a man. But if you can´t place him in a category, it means that at least a part of him is what a human being ought to be. He has risen above himself, he has a grain of immortality.”
“At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite colour . . . it's green?"
"That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange."
"Orange?" He seems unconvinced.
"Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once."
"Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you."
But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces."
Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.”
“Como ve, todos tenemos en nuestro interior los elementos necesarios para producir fósforo. Es más, déjeme decirle algo que a nadie le he confiado. Mi abuela tenía una teoría muy interesante, decía que si bien todos nacemos con una caja de cerillos en nuestro interior, no los podemos encender solos, necesitamos como en el experimento, oxígeno y la ayuda de una vela. Sólo que en este caso el oxígeno tiene que provenir, por ejemplo, del aliento de la persona amada; la vela puede ser cualquier tipo de alimento, música, caricia, palabra o sonido que haga disparar el detonador y así encender uno de los cerillos. Por un momento nos sentiremos deslumbrados por una intensa emoción. Se producirá en nuestro interior un agradable calor que irá desapareciendo poco a poco conforme pase el tiempo, hasta que venga una nueva explosión a reavivarlo. Cada persona tiene que descubrir cuáles son sus detonadores para poder vivir, pues la combustión que se produce al encenderse uno de ellos es lo que nutre la energía al alma. En otras palabras, esta combustión es su alimento. Si uno no descubre a tiempo cuáles son sus propios detonadores, la caja de cerillos se humedece y ya nunca podremos encender un solo fósforo”
“When I have neither pleasure nor pain and have been breathing for a while the lukewarm insipid air of these so called good and tolerable days, I feel so bad in my childish soul that I smash my moldering lyre of thanksgiving in the face of the slumbering god of contentment and would rather feel the very devil burn in me than this warmth of a well-heated room. A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, a warehouse, perhaps, or a cathedral, or myself, to commit outrages, to pull off the wigs of a few revered idols...”
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