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He told me once to be brave, and though I have stood still while knives spun toward my face and jumped off a roof, I never thought I would need bravery in the small moments of my life. I do.
Veronica Roth
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Veronica Roth
Age: 36
Born: 1988
Born: August 19
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
New York City
New York
Veronica Anne Roth
Needs
Face
Knives
Never
Though
Bravery
Would
Faces
Roof
Life
Moments
Stood
Thought
Brave
Stills
Toward
Still
Told
Spun
Need
Small
Jumped
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May the peace of God be with you, she says, her voice low, even in the midst of trouble. Why would it? I say softly, so no one else can hear. After all I've done... It isn't about you, she says. It is a gift. You cannot earn it, or it ceases to be a gift.
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I am better off doing as abnegation taught me: turning away from myself, projecting always outward, and hoping that in whatever is next, I will be better than I am now.
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Beatrice. We should think of our family. But. But we must also think of ourselves.
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It's stupid to miss a thing when there are so many people to miss instead, but I miss this train already, and all the others that carried me through the city, my city, after I was brave enough to ride them. I brush my fingers over the car wall, just once, and then jump.
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Why do people want to pretend that death is sleep? It isn't. It isn't.
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It is a gift. You cannot earn it, or it ceases to be a gift.
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Before I chose Dauntless...I felt assured of my long lifespan, if nothing else. Now there are no reassurances except that where I go, I go because I choose to.
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He slides his hand over my cheek, one finger anchored behind my ear. Then he tilts his head down and kisses me, sending a warm ache through my body. I wrap my hands around his arm, holding him there as long as I can. When he touches me, the hollowed-out feeling in my chest and stomach is not as noticeable.
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Eric called Al's suicide brave, and he was wrong. My mother's death was brave. I remember how calm she was, how determined. It isn't just brave that she died for me it is brave that she did it without announcing it, without hesitation, and without appearing to consider another option.
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You're not very nice, I say, grinning. You're one to talk. Hey, I could be nice if I tried. Hmm. He taps his chin. Say something nice, then. You're very good-looking. He smiles, his teeth a flash in this dark. I like this 'nice' thing.
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I'm surprised you know that, I say quietly, since you left halfway through my one and only fight. It wasn't something I wanted to watch. he says. What's that supposed to mean?
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You sadistic pansycake.
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His hands skim my bare arms. “Just bounce a little when you walk,” he says, kissing my forehead, “and pretend you’re afraid of their guns” —another kiss between my eyebrows— “and act like the shrinking violet you could never be ”—a kiss on my cheek— “and you’ll be fine.
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Life damages us, every one. We can't escape that damage.
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