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Money's the same, whoever gives it to you. That was the point of money, after all: crisp and clean or wrinkled or disintegrated into quarters - a dollar was always worth a hundred cents.
Scott Westerfeld
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Scott Westerfeld
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: May 5
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Dallas
Texas
Scott David Westerfeld
Always
Dollars
Disintegrated
Clean
Wrinkled
Hundred
Crisp
Worth
Crisps
Gives
Cents
Point
Quarters
Money
Dollar
Giving
Whoever
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Shay sometimes talked in a mysterious way, like she was quoting the lyrics of some band no one else listened to.
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Never bored on a hoverboard.
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But they're already singing our praises! They are Americans. They toot their horns for anything.
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You're insane! she shouted. Pretty cool, huh? No!Tally yelled. Why didn't you tell me it was broken? Shay shrugged. More fun that way? More fun? Her heart beating fast,her vision strangely clear. She was full of anger and relief and...joy. Well, kind of. But you suck!
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And it was pretty clear that no prince was showing up, or at least that he was really late.
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That was the whole point of being special: You existed to make sure everyone else behaved, but that didn't mean YOU had to.
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Did you really think I was too fragile to know what Deryn was? Fragile? Volger looked about. I hadn't thought so, but now I find you brooding in a bathroom. This doesn't speak well of your sturdiness.
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If you see everything through hovercams and feed stories, you wind up blind to what's right in front of you.
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I kissed him once, she whispered. Well done. What did he do? Um... Deryn sighed. He woke up.
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When the term machine gun enters common parlance, the word machine becomes much more sinister.
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You see, freedom has a way of destroying things.
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One of the most common questions writers are asked is Where do you get your ideas? But the sad truth is, we don't know. Ideas can come at any time and from any direction: in the shower, waiting for an elevator, or while bouncing across Wikipedia pages.
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Sometimes, the hardest thing was doing nothing.
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She thought of the orchids spreading across the plains below, choking the life out of other plants, out of the soil itself, selfish and unstoppable. Tally Youngblood was a weed. And, unlike the orchids, she wasn't even a pretty one.
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Lilt pulled away. I saw what he was doing, so I cleared a path for him. I helped him do it... She shook her head, tears tracking the dust off her face, and turned to stare at the fallen tower. Have we all gone mad to want this?
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The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit. Of course, Tally thought, you’d have to feed your cat only salmon-flavored cat food for a while, to get the pinks right.
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But you weren't born expecting that kind of beauty in everyone, all the time. You just got programmed into thinking anything else is ugly.
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Sometimes you can’t choose what you love.
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