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Beatrice. We should think of our family. But. But we must also think of ourselves.

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
Beatrice
Divergent
Family
Also
Must
Think
Thinking

More quotes by Veronica Roth

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Tris.” I keep staring. “Tris.” I finally look at him. “I just don’t want to lose you.
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I don't want to try to live up to someone who's created something so incredible. I'm just trying to focus on what I'm doing and what I do best. It's sometimes hard to focus in and only think about my books rather than how they measure up to someone else's.
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I am still the person who would have died rather than kill you
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I love Tris the Divergent, who makes decisions apart from faction loyalty, who isn’t some faction archetype. But the Tris who’s trying as hard as she can to destroy herself … I can’t love her.
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I'll say it one last time: Be brave.
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We don't know what's happened out there since they put us in here, or how many generations have lived and died since they did.We could be the last people left.
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What did you do?” This time the question tears from my throat like a growl. I throw myself toward him. “What did you do?” I scream. “You die, I die too. I asked you not to do this. You made your decision. These are the repercussions.
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In our factions, we find meaning, we find purpose, we find life.
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If I let a little of the emotion out, all of it will come out, and it will never end.
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There are men with guns up there. When they see me, they will kill me, if they can, I tell my father quietly. I search his eyes. Should I let them? He stares at me for a few seconds. Go, he says, and God help you.
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Can I be forgiven for all I've done to get here? I want to be. I can. I believe it.
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Like a wild animal, the truth is too powerful to remain caged.
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Caleb, I say, I love you. His eyes gleam with tear as he says, I love you, too, Beatrice.
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You’re too important to just … die.” He shakes his head. He won’t even look at me—his eyes keep shifting across my face, to the wall behind me or the ceiling above me, to everything but me. I am too stunned to be angry. “I’m not important. Everyone will do just fine without me,” I say. “Who cares about everyone? What about me?
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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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Writing means not just staring ugliness in the face, but finding a way to embrace it.
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Who cares about pretty? I'm going for noticeable.
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It is impossible to erase my choices.
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Desperation can make a person do surprising things.
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What do I believe? I do not know I do not know I do not know.
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