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You want him to walk? Caleb demands. Are you insane? Did I shoot him in the leg? I say. No. He walks. Where do we go, Peter?

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
Demand
Walk
Walks
Peter
Demands
Shoot
Insane
Legs

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Sleep,” he says. “I'll fight the bad dreams off if they come to get you.” “With what?” “My bare hands, obviously.
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Did you just call me BEATRICE?
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I started writing because I decided I was too old to play pretend in the backyard. Then I found that I could create those imaginary worlds on the page.
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Any idiot can stand in front of a target, I say. It doesn't prove anything except that you're bullying us. Which, as I recall is a sign of cowardice Then it should be easy for you, Eric sys. If you're willing ot take his place.
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I figured I would shoot the bullets out of my nostrils, so I left [the gun] upstairs.
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The official strategy is defensive pessimism, always.
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Because there might come a day when there is no flashlight, there is no gun, there is no guiding hand. And I want to be ready for it. (divergent pg.138)
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But I will find new habits, new thoughts, new rules. I will become something else.
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I know that I am birdlike, made narrow and small as if for taking flight, built straight-waisted and fragile. But when he touches me like he can't bear to take his hand away, I don't wish I was any different.
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I am no longer Tris, the selfless, or Tris, the brave. I suppose that now, I must become more than either.
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I frown at him. How does he know all this information? And why, after two years of avoiding becoming a Dauntless leader at all costs, is he suddenly acting like one?
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I've done without doing things, like sleeping and eating, but I need to write.
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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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Take away someone’s fear, or low intelligence, or dishonesty . . . and you take away their compassion. Take away someone’s aggression and you take away their motivation, or their ability to assert themselves. Take away their selfishness and you take away their sense of self-preservation.
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Sometimes I still forget to look for the gentler parts of her. For so long all I saw was the strength, standing out like the wiry muscles in her arms or the black ink marking her collarbone with flight.
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Politeness is deception in pretty packaging.
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This is bizarre, I say. I think it's beautiful, he says. I give him a look. What? He laughs a little. They each have an equal role in government they each feel equally responsible. And it makes them care it makes them kind. I think that's beautiful.
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I have done bad things. I can't take them back, and they are part of who I am. Most of the time, they seem like the only thing I am.
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They try to make you think they care about what you do but they don't. They don't want you to act a certain way. So you're easy to understand. So you won't pose a threat to them.
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And I provide much- needed eye candy.
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