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For someone so small, you're heavy, Stiff, he mutters.
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
Mutters
Stiff
Heavy
Small
Someone
More quotes by Veronica Roth
Be careful, though. Aren't I always? No, I think the word for how you usually are is 'reckless.
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I belong to the people I love, and they belong to me--they, and the love and loyaty I give them, form my identity far more than any word or group ever could.
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She must love me, to worry about me. She must still be capable of love.
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A lot can happen to a person's appearance in three months.
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That is how it feels. Like everything between us is twisted together, friendship and love and family, so I cant tell the difference between any of them.
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Out of my peripheral vision, I see Four shove the door open and walk out. Apparently this fight isn't interesting enough for him. Or maybe he's going to figure out why everything's spinning like a top, and I don't blame him I want to know the answer too.
Veronica Roth
I choose him over and over again, and he chooses me.
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Lynn smacks Uriah hard in the back of the head, Christina says, “Hey Tris!” and Uriah cries, “Ow! How on earth do you make a pillow hurt, Lynn?” “My exceptional strength,” she says.
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It's not cruelty, maybe, but a desire to understand that motivates them.
Veronica Roth
Being honest doesn't mean you say whatever you want, wherever you want. It means that what you choose to say is true.
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The goal of my life isn't just... to be happy. 'Wouldn't it be easier if it was, though?
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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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I have discovered that sitting still leaves little spaces for the grief to get in, so I stay busy.
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You were afraid of shooting people? No, I say. I was afraid of my considerable capacity to kill. How many young men fear that there is a monster inside of them?
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I watch her blond head until it disappears around the bend, and I feel bare, like there's nothing left to protect me against pain. Her absence stings worst of all.
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Drink this, she says. What is it? my throat feels swollen. I swallow hard. What's going to happen? Can't tell you that. Just trust me. I press air from my lungs and tip the contents of the vial into my mouth. My eyes close.
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I can’t answer either question. But the look she gives me reminds me of the look in the attack dog’s eyes in the aptitude test – a vicious, predatory stare. She wants to rip me to pieces. I can’t lie down in submission now. I have become an attack dog too.
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He leans his face close to mine and wraps his fingers around my chin. His hand smells like metal. When was the last time he held a gun, or a knife?
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Sorry, am I being rude? she asks. I'm used to saying whatever is on my mind. Mom used to say that politeness is deception in pretty packaging
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I suppose everything is bound to look different when you aren't on your way to die.
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