So actually, there could be parents-of-the-parents-of-the-parents-of-the parents?
Elderberry,” the old woman told her.
They were arranged by their original numbers, the numbers they had been given at birth. The numbers were rarely used after the Naming. But each child knew his number, of course. Sometimes parents used them in irritation at a child’s misbehavior, indicating that mischief made one unworthy of a name. Jonas always chuckled when he heard a parent, exasperated, call sharply to a whining toddler, ″That’s enough, Twenty-three!
Maybe it is something that artists have,” she said, liking the sound of the word she had just learned. “A special kind of magic knowledge.
Don’t ever be sorry for that. Weren’t we lucky that Papa thought so quickly and found the pictures? And weren’t we lucky that Lise had dark hair when she was a baby? It turned blond later on, when she was two or so.” “In between,” Papa added, “she was bald for a while!” Ellen and Annemarie both smiled tentatively. For a moment their fear was eased.
I guess the important thing is also the simplest. To acknowledge our connectedness on this earth, to bow our heads when we see a scorched bicycle or a child’s message to his lost grandpa and to honor the past by making silent promises to our fellow humans that we will work for a better and more peaceful future.
Be one of many. Be sure that they never have reason to remember your face.
Annemarie admitted to herself, snuggling there in the quiet dark, that she was glad to be an ordinary person who would never be called upon for courage.
Where Is Mrs. Hirsch?
Jonas was careful about language.
He saw all of the light and colour and history it contained and carried in its slow-moving water; and he knew that there was an Elsewhere from which it came, and an Elsewhere to which it was going.
Don’t keep interrupting or I’ll never finish the story.
Mama, what is this?” she asked suddenly, reaching into the grass at the foot of the steps. Mama looked. She gasped. “Oh, my God,” she said. Annemarie picked it up. She recognized it now, knew what it was. It was the packet that Peter had given to Mr. Rosen. “Mr. Rosen tripped on the step, remember? It must have fallen from his pocket. We’ll have to save it and give it back to Peter.” Annemarie handed it to her mother. “Do you know what it is?
Friends will take care of them. That’s what friends do.
Sunkiausias dalykas Atminties Saugotojui yra ne skausmas. Sunkiausia, kad saugai prisiminimus vienas. Jais reikia dalintis.
It was so – oh, I wish language were more precise! The red was so beautiful!
Release was not the same as Loss.
There are so many good memories,” The Giver reminded Jonas. And it was true.
He thrust his tongue into his cheek, wrinkled his nose and creased his forehead. He made a chortling sound.
I will take care of that, sir. I will take care of that, sir,” Jonas mimicked in a cruel, sarcastic voice. “I will do whatever you like, sir”. I will kill people, sir. Old people? Small new born people? I’d be happy to kill them, sir. Thank you for your instructions, sir. How may I help y-” He couldn’t seem to stop.
A man who had, as an adult, fled the cult in which he had been raised, told me that his psychiatrist had recommended The Giver to him.