“I never said it would be easy. Giving up is easy.”
“For the first time, I was the center of attention. Everyone watched me as if I were a bomb. Would I explode and cause a disaster or would I pop and cause a miracle?”
“Before he turned away, I asked, 'What do you need?'
'I need you. I need to give you a proper kiss. I need you to be my mate.”
“When the effort fails, is it worth the cost?”
“No hope, is worse than fear.”
“His words sliced through my heart, cutting it into little pathetic pieces.”
“I do know I felt as if my heart had been shredded when I found you in our storeroom, unconscious and bleeding. And leaving you with Vinco in the holding cells was the hardest thing I've ever done."
- Riley to Trella”
“[Riley] slapped his hands to his face and then dropped them as if in surrender. 'I always say the wrong thing around you. Look, can we start over?'
Over?"
Yes. Over. Wipe the board clean.'
But I would have to go back to hating you and not trusting you' I said
Oh, well don't do that.' He paused and chewed his lip. 'Does that mean you like and trust me now?' "
- Riley and Trella”
“Maximum damage. It was the beginning of the end. Either we would fail or not. At least we could say we tried.”
“It's the effort, not the results that matter.”
“Exactly. You can shoulder all the blame and become a martyr. Provided anyone knows what or who you're martyring for. Or you can accept that some things are important enough to fight for and realize there will be sacrifices along the way.”
“Words are easy. It's convincing the heart that's hard.”
“If you put enough sheep together you have a herd- a force to be reckoned with.”
“We talked through Gillie's life from start to finish, including all her accomplishments and major life events. The woman fell asleep with a dreamy half smile still on her lips.
I remained by her bedside. Cog would be amused by my efforts to comfort an upper. No. Not amused. Proud. I liked Ella. She was a good sort, much nicer than Trella, and I hoped she managed to survive the next thirty hours.”
“Some Queen of the Pipes, I thought. I'd believed I was better than a mindless drone. But I was the mindless one, hiding away. Even now I referred to them as if I didn't belong.”
“I doubt I would ever be missed. Noted absent, charged delinquent, reprimanded but never missed.”
“Being a scrub was undesirable and hard work, living in crowded conditions with no privacy and just being one of many. Undistinguishable.”
“A full-out rebellion would take a major amount of luck and coordination. The Tech Nos and Domotor looked at me, waiting. No one else would be able to organize both sides. I drew in a deep breath. We had the technology, the intelligence and the people—put enough sheep together and you have a herd, a force to be reckoned with. We needed a leader.”
“Why?" I figured they would do what they had done before and lay low.
"Because of you."
"Me? You've got to be joking."
"You're right. I am. It's really because of Sheepy. How he risked his life for them, and how he showed them that scrubs are real human beings who care and want the same things in life. Opened their eyes to the fact the Travas are our mutual enemy."
"Sheepy's a great guy...sheep.”
“I reached 1400 weeks, the age of maturity. The age when you were no longer considered a child. It was when you became a scrub and the reality of what the rest of your life would be like became suddenly and brutally apparent. The old-timers called it sweet sixteen, but there wasn’t anything sweet about it. I”
“Twenty-nine years old and on her third masters degree because she’s afraid to go out and meet the world. Sad, isn’t it?” Mal sighed. “Tragic.”
“I continued working without a break, but in the middle of the third story...I felt myself tiring more than if I had been working on a novel. The same thing happened with the fourth. In fact, I did not have the energy to finish them. Now I know why: The effort involved in writing a short story is as intense as beginning a novel, where everything must be defined in the first paragraph: structure, tone, style, rhythm, length, and sometimes even the personality of a character. All the rest is the pleasure of writing, the most intimate, solitary pleasure one can imagine, and if the rest of one's life is not spent correcting the novel, it is because the same iron rigor needed to begin the book is required to end it. But a story has no beginning, no end: Either it works or it doesn't. And if it doesn't, my own experience, and the experience of others, shows that most of the time it is better for one's health to start again in another direction, or toss the story in the wastebasket. Someone, I don't remember who, made the point with this comforting phrase: "Good writers are appreciated more for what they tear up than for what they publish.”
“My motivation in life was to be a good enough man for her, worthy of her awesomeness.”
“The moon is wicked, jealous of the sun. People do bad things in the dark, under the hollow gaze of the moon. It’s smiling at me now, proud of my sin.”
“When he was young, his father told him that black people didn't like water because they were brought over on slave ships. What did a black man want to swim for? The ocean floor was already littered with black men.”
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