Quote

Then at the top of the hill, the road forks. Which just figures. You gotta be kidding. I say. One part of the road goes left, the other goes right. (Well, it's a Fork ain't it?)

Patrick Ness

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Patrick Ness
Age: 53
Born: 1971
Born: October 17
Author
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Fairfax
Virginia
Goes
Fork
Left
Kidding
Part
Forks
Wells
Hill
Well
Gotta
Right
Hills
Road
Figures

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Stories don't always have happy endings. This stopped him. Because they didn't, did they? That's one thing the monster had definitely taught him. Stories were wild, wild animals and went off in directions you couldn't expect.
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A thing worth learning is worth learning well.
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Viola? Keep calling for me– And I’ll keep searching for you– And I’ll find you– You bet yer life on it– I’ll find you– Keep calling for me, Viola– Cuz here I come.
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There's always beauty, if you know where to look.
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It's always nice when two people who don't got no one else find each other as friends.
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A knife is only as good as the one who wields it.
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Here is the boy, drowning.
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Librarians open up the world. Knowledge is useless if you don't even know where to begin to look. How much more can you discover when someone can point you in the right direction, when someone can maybe even give you a treasure map, to places you may not have even thought you were allowed to go? This is what librarians do.
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So who are you then, Todd Hewitt? he says. What makes you so special? Now that, I think, is a very good asking.
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Viola? Keep calling for me– And I’ll keep searching for you– And I’ll find you– You bet yer life on it– I’ll find you– Keep calling for me, Viola– Cuz here I come.
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You are keeping the possibility [of peace] open. No wise leader would do anything less
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Stories are the wildest things of all. Stories chase and bite and hunt.
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The monster showed up just after midnight. As they do.
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He was still alive. Which was the worst thing that could have happened.
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Her accent's funny, different from mine, different from anyone in Prentisstown's. Her lips make different kinds of outlines for the letters, like they're swooping down on them from above, pushing them into shape, telling them what to say. In Prentisstown, everyone talks like they're sneaking up on their words, ready to club them from behind.
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If you ever see a war, she says, not looking up from her clipboard, you'll learn that war only destroys. No one escapes from a war. No one. Not even the survivors.
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No one ever seems to wonder what happens if it turns out we hate living on a planet? What if the sky’s too big? What if the air stinks? What if we go hungry?’ ‘And what if the air tastes of honey? What if there’s so much food we all get too fat? What if the sky is so beautiful we don’t get any work done because we’re all looking at it too much?
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And I look at her sitting there and she looks across the river and we wait as the dawn fully arrives, each of us knowing. Each of us knowing the other.
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But, somehow, Wilf knows. Somehow, Wilf always knows.
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