Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known, or everyone you have ever loved for the sake of something greater.
VERONICA ROTHShh,” I say. “Arms around me.” Obediently, he slips both arms around my waist. I smile at the wall. I am not enjoying this. I am not, not even a little bit, no.
More Veronica Roth Quotes
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The fire, the fire. It rages within, a campfire and then an inferno, and my body is its fuel.
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I traded cowardice for cruelty; I traded weakness for ferocity.
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There is always somthing to learn, always somthing that is important to understand
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I want people to come away from my book with questions. Questions about virtue and goodness. Not answers.
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I feel it racing through me, eating away at the weight. There is nothing that can kill me now; I am powerful and invincible and eternal.
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I laugh, and it’s laughter, not light, that casts out the darkness building within me, that reminds me I am still alive, even in this strange place where everything I’ve ever known is coming apart.
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The truth is… you are hurting me. Not on purpose, I know that. But I love you and every second that you don´t love me back…it hurts.
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It isn’t right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt me first.
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To me, when someone wrongs you, you both share the burden of that wrongdoing—the pain of it weighs on both of you. Forgiveness, then, means choosing to bear the full weight all by yourself.
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I didn’t know that idiocy caused people to just start spontaneously bleeding from the nose.
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But when a book comes out, it’s just hundreds of opinions and you have to learn to separate out the ones you want to listen to or figure out many you want to listen to.
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Because even a sliver of distance between us is infuriating.
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I’ll say it one last time: Be brave.
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I feel bare. I didn’t realize I wore my secrets as armor until they were gone and now everyone sees me as I really am.
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Do remember, though, that sometimes the people you oppress become mightier than you would like.
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It reminds me that no embrace will ever feel the same again, because no one will ever be like her again, because she’s gone. She’s gone, and crying feels so useless, so stupid, but it’s all I can do.
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He stares at me, and I don’t look away. He isn’t a dog, but the same rules apply. Looking away is submissive.
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Since I was young, I have always known this: Life damages us, every one. We can’t escape that damage. But now, I am also learning this: We can be mended. We mend each other.
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In order to have peace, we must first have trust.
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What did you do, memorize a map of the city for fun?” says Christina. “Yes,” says Will, looking puzzled. “Didn’t you?
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I know exactly how we fit together, his arm around my waist, my hands on his chest, the pressure of his lips on mine. We have each other memorized.
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We believe in shouting for those who can only whisper, in defending those who cannot defend themselves.
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“Oh, you know,” I say. “Sun shining. Birds chirping.” She raises an eyebrow at me, as if reminding me that we are in an underground tunnel.
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Then I realize what it is. It’s him. Something about him makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames.
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I feel like what I have become is halfway between my mother and my father, violent and impulsive and desperate and afraid. I feel like I have lost control of what I have become.
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When you’re a writer, you hear your internal critic, and that’s really hard to get over. And then sometimes you hear critiques from classmates and stuff.
VERONICA ROTH