Becoming fearless isn't the point. That's impossible. It's learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it.
I kiss him as the train slides into unlit, uncertain land. I kiss him for as long as I want, for longer than I should, given that my brother sits three feet away from me.
Sometimes it isn't fighting that's brave, its facing the death you know is coming.
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?
I'm going to shoot a muffin off Marlene's head.
Two things you should know about me; The first is that I am deeply suspicious of people in general. It is my nature to expect the worst of them. And the second is that I am unexpectedly good with computers.
I am fed up. I am fed up with tears and weakness. But there isn't much i can do to stop them.
Our eyes meet. I hear a train horn, so faint it could be wind whistling through an alleyway. But I know it when I hear it. It sounds like the Dauntless, calling me to to them.
Why do people want to pretend that death is sleep? It isn't. It isn't.
But maybe what I saw as fearless was actually fear under control.
I need the protection of seeming weak.
Sometimes pain is for the greater good.
He moves his thumb in a slow circle over the back of my hand. It is meant to comfort me, but it frustrates me instead. I need to talk to him. I need to look at him.
In our factions, we find meaning, we find purpose, we find life.
Valuing knowledge above all else results in a lust for power, and that leads men into dark and empty places.
I breathe in. The water will wash my wounds clean. I breathe out. My mother submerged me in water when I was a baby, to give me to God. It has been a long time since I thought about God, but I think about him now. It is only natural. I am glad, suddenly, that I shot Eric in the foot instead of the head.
Part of me wonders if this is a suicide mission disguised as a game.
Yesterday he told me he thought I would have to pretend to be weak, but he was wrong. I am weak already. I brace myself against the wall and press my forehead to my hands. It's difficult to take deep breaths, so I take short, shallow ones. I can't let this happen. They attacked me to make me feel weak. I can pretend they succeeded to protect myself, but I can't let it become true.
Decades ago, our ancestors realized that it is not just political ideology, religious belief, race, or nationalism that is to blame for a warring world. Rather, they determined that it was the fault of human personality - of humankind's inclination towards evil, in whatever form that is. They divided into factions that sought to eradicate those qualities they believed responsible for the world's disarray.
I note how calm she looks and how focused she is. She is well-practiced in the art of losing herself. I can't say the same of myself.
Sometimes, the best way to help someone is just to be near them.
He pulls me over the railing and against his chest, gathering me into his arms, easing an arm under my knees. I press my face into his shoulder, and there is a sudden, hollow silence.
It isn't right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt me first.
We believe in bravery. We believe in taking action. We believe in freedom from fear and in acquiring the skills to force the bad out of our world so that the good can prosper and thrive. If you also believe in those things, we welcome you.
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.
Politeness is deception in pretty packaging.
You chose us. Now we have to choose you.
Eric called Al's suicide brave, and he was wrong. My mother's death was brave. I remember how calm she was, how determined. It isn't just brave that she died for me; it is brave that she did it without announcing it, without hesitation, and without appearing to consider another option.
I pause a second. He doesn't look at me the way Will, Christina, and Al sometimes do - like I am too small and too weak to be of any use, and they pity me for it.
Suicide to them is an act of selfishness. Someone who is truly selfless does not think of himself often enough to desire death.
More Veronica Roth Quotations (Based on Topics)
Courage - Time - Fear - Good & Evil - Death & Dying - Selfishness - Water - People - Mind - Art - Mothers - Education - Place - Learning - Reasoning - Courtesy - Honesty & Integrity - Belief & Faith - Life - View All Veronica Roth Quotations
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