3
" No problem," Gale replies. " I wake up ten times a night anyway." " To make sure Katniss is still here?" asks Peeta." Something like that," ..." That was funny, what Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do with her." " Well, WE never have," ..." She loves you, you know," says Peeta. " She as good as told me after they whipped you." " Don't believe it," Gale answers. " The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell...well she never kissed me like that." " It was just part of the show," Peeta tells him, although there's an edge of doubt in his voice." No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that's the only way to convince her you love her." There's a long pause. " I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then." " You couldn't," says Peeta. " She'd never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life." ..." I wonder how she'll make up her mind." " Oh, that I do know." I can just catch Gale's last words through the layer of fur. " Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without "
4
" A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort's was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco's wand:" Avada Kedavra!" " Expelliarmus!" The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. "
8
" See now, for a good blade, one that will not betray the man in battle, rods of hard and soft iron must be heated and braided together. Then is the blade folded over and hammered flat again, and maybe yet again, many times for the finest blades... So the hard and soft iron are mingled without blending, before the blade is hammered up to its finished form and tempered, and ground to an edge that shall draw blood from the wind. So comes the pattern, like oil and water that mingle but do not mix. Yet it is the strength of the blade, for without the hard iron the blade would bend in battle, and without the soft iron it would break. "
― Rosemary Sutcliff , The Shining Company
11
" We love surfers for the same reasons we have always admired doctors and pilots and firemen and shamans, for the same reasons we admire excellent soldiers: because despite themselves they have bowed to a force much greater than themselves, which in this case is the wave, and submitted to the gnarly rigors of its discipline. They have allowed themselves to be shaped and polished by the sea. They have given themselves up to this greater force, day after day, year after year. Crushed and punished, battered into something tempered and resilient, and sharpened to an edge by constant refinement. They are warriors in the best sense: by bending to the often brutal demands of surfing they have transformed themselves into beings who can respond to great violence with grace and humility. And beauty. "
― Peter Heller , Kook: What Surfing Taught Me About Love, Life, and Catching the Perfect Wave
14
" I dial her mum's number, then sit down cross-legged, facing the wall. When she comes on the line, she sounds uncertain, hesitant.
'Hey! Guess where I am?' I ask, my voice loud with false cheer.
'Rami told me. The Wellesly Hospital in Worthing. What's it like?'
'For a loony-bin it's actually quite decent,' I reply. 'I don't have Sky or an en-suite, and the menu isn't exactly à la carte, but you know...' I tail off.
There is a silence.
'Do you have your own room?' Jenna asks,
'Oh yeah, yeah. I have a lovely view of the sea between the bars of my window.'
She doesn't laugh.
'Have you started' -there is a pause as she searches for the right word -'threatment?'
'Yeah, yeah. We had group therapy today. Tomorrow we'll probably have art therapy - maybe I'll draw you a hourse and a garden. I know, perhaps they'll teach us to make baskets! Isn't that why they call us basket cases?'
'Flynn, stop,' Jennah softly implores.
'And we'll probably have music therapy the day after. Maybe I'll get to play the tambourine. Or the triangle. I've always wanted to play the triangle!'
'Flynn-'
'No, I'm serious! I'll ask for some manuscript paper and see if I can write a composition for tambourine and triangle. Then I can post if off to you to hand in for my next composition assignment.'
'Flynn, listen-'
'Hold on, hold on! I'm making a note to myself now: Find fellow insane musician and start composing the Flynn Laukonen Sonata for Tambourine and Triangle.'
'Flynn-'
'And then, when they let me out, if they ever let me out, perhaps you could pull a few strigns and organize for me and my tambourine buddy to give a recital. I'm not sure where though -how about the subway at Marble Arch tube? Nice and central, good acoustics-'
'What are the other people like?' Jennah cuts in, an edge to her voice. I notice she doesn't use the word patients. Clever Jennah. For a moment there you almost made me forget I was locked up in a mental institution.
'Round the bend, just like me,' I reply. 'I'm in excellent company. We'll be swapping suicide tips in no time at all!' I give a harsh laugh. "
― Tabitha Suzuma , A Voice in the Distance (Flynn Laukonen, #2)