C'mon C'mon Book Quotes

So, daddy, huh? C’mon Blue-Eyes, don’t be like that. You kept screaming ‘more’ and it was the dirtiest thing I could think of.

Emily, do not sleep!’ Emily’s eyes flashed open. Fawn was twisted around on the stallion’s back and shaking her. ‘I – I’m awake. Thanks. I’m just so tired.’ ‘Hey, Em,’ Joel called, struggling to be heard over the whooshing of the Solar Stream. ‘Sing along with me.’ His deep voice rose clear and loud: ‘Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, there’d be ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall . . .’ Joel looked back at Paelen. ‘C’mon, it’s easy. Sing to keep Emily awake!’ ‘Wait,’ Paelen cried. He flew closer to Joel to be heard. ‘Why are there ninety-nine bottles of beer on a wall? What wall? And what caused one to fall?’ ‘It doesn’t matter – just shut up and sing!’ Joel ordered.

The truth was that upsilamba was one of Nabokovs fascinating creations, possibly a word he invented. I said I associate Upsilamba with the impossible joy of a suspended leap. Yassi, who seemed excited for no particular reason, cried out that she always thought it could be a name of a dance- you know, "C'mon, baby, do the Upsilamba with me". Manna suggested that the word upsilamba evoked the image of small silver fish leaping in and out of a moonlit lake. Nima added in parentheses, Just so you won't forget me, although you have barred me from your class: an upsilamba to you too! For Azin it was a sound, a melody. Mahashid described an image of three girls jumping rope and shouting" Upsilamba" with each leap. For Sanaz, the word was a small African boy's secret magical name. Mitra wasn't sure why the word reminded her of the paradox of a blissful sigh. And for Nassrin it was a magic code that opened the door to a secret cave filled with treasures.

And last, thank you to you unshakably curious readers who still read acknowledgments though you aren’t looking for your name. What, the book wasn’t long enough for you? Go on, get outta here and go tell someone, “You gotta read this! No, really. C’mon, there’s a maa-aap.

We recently graduated from school, and the mayor gave us one last little school assignment. We had to write about our chosen profession. Twenty pages, too. Now, I love my village and all, and have absolutely zero regrets about becoming a warrior, but dude, c'mon. Who wants to write twenty pages about anything? Luckily, Runt thought of a way for us to avoid writing so much without breaking the rules, and every other student copied Runt's idea. Needless to say, the mayor wasn't too thrilled about that. Guess that's why Runt is back to crafting potato-based food items." Resisting the urge to ask 'What's a potato?', I nodded. "Hmm. Do you think I'll be able to speak with him?" "Probably,

So…you're not going to tell me what they mean? C'mon. What's the Hob? Why Forks?” When I stand, I switch to my blatantly rude, you're-an-idiot tone. This is the one that always pisses off my mom. To be sure he's not missing my insult this time, I also cross my arms and speak very slowly like I'm speaking to a toddler. “The Hob is from The Hunger Games books. It's the underground market where the characters trade food and information. Forks would be the town in Twilight. The setting. In boy-speak, Forks equals the planet Tatooine for Star Wars. You know—Anakin Skywalker's childhood home? Or are you not familiar with any global blockbusters? I suppose I could use Sesame Street or Pokémon for a reference—if it would help you understand better?” Bam. That should seal it. I couldn't have sounded more like a total bitch. He nods. “No, I've got it. My bedroom was Tatooine for all of third and fourth grade. Boy-speak…that's funny.” He laughs again, and it sounds warm and—and—not at all offended!

I’m not getting fat and lazy. I’ve always been lazy. C’mon, I’m American!

Frank sniffed. 'You know me well, wife. I thought those were in the basement.' 'They were. You should have been an English teacher, Frank.' 'What are we going to do?' Henry asked. 'We're going to build a wooden horse, stick you inside it, and offer it up as a gift,' Frank answered. 'Burn your bridges when you come to them,' Dotty said. She smiled at Frank, picked up the empty plates, and walked back into the kitchen. 'Can we watch?' Henrietta asked. 'You,' Frank said, 'can go play in the barn, the yard, the fields, or the ditches, so long as you are nowhere near the action. C'mon, Henry.' The girls moaned and complained while Henry followed his uncle up the stairs. At the top, they walked all the way around the landing until they faced the very old, very wooden door to Grandfather's bedroom. Uncle Frank set down his tools. 'Today is the day, Henry. I can feel it. I never told your aunt this, but my favorite book's in there. I was reading it to your Grandfather near the end. It's been due back at the library for awhile now, and it'd be nice to be able to check something else out.

I always wondered why nobody did it before me. I mean, all those comic book movies and television shows, you'd think at least one eccentric loner would have stitched himself a costume. Is everyday life really so exciting? Are schools and offices really so thrilling that I'm the only one who ever fantasized about this? C'mon. Be honest with yourself. We all planned to be a superhero at some point in our lives.

I'm sorry I looked. Or saw, I guess. I didn't go digging through your book. The pages fell out." "Yeah. I kinda figured that might have been what happened." He scuffed one heel against the cement. "The book fell out of my bag again...and,well..." And,well, there he was,forgiven. "Zippers," I said. "One of mankind's better inventions. Your bag has one; I've seen it." "You see much, Grasshopper." I blinked at him. "C'mon. Kung Fu?" He let go of his knees and sliced both hands through the air in a choppy spiral. "Shaolin monk fighting against injustice while searching for his long-lost brother in the Old West?" I shook my head. "Nope.Sorry."" "Sad. I bet you wouldn't recognize 'Live long and prosper,' either." "Nope." "How did I know? My dad got me into seventies TV.It's awfully brilliant. Or brilliantly awful, maybe." He had relaxed and was looking monumentally pleased with seventies television or himself or something. You're awfully beautiful, Alex Bainbridge. I managed to keep that one to myself,but... "You're really good." That one got away from me. "Your drawing, I mean.

We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. —Romans 8:26 (NIV) C’mon guys, it's time to leave!” I call. The younger kids head toward the door. “No!” John bellows so loudly that Stephen clasps his ears. I take a deep breath. It’s my fifteen-year-old’s Sunday-morning anxiety attack, which manifests itself as belligerence. I have Andrew go on ahead with the other kids. It’s better to handle this without an audience. I talk to John for a bit. It is the usual problem: He is afraid God is angry and will not forgive him for some of the things he’s done in the past. We talk about grace, mercy, and love. We discuss the irrationality of thinking you’re the only unforgivable person in the world. I pray for him silently, because he won’t let me pray out loud. Then I have to decide: Is he safe and capable of calming down on his own? Should I stay home to make sure he’s okay? I head out the door, hoping John will join us at church in a little while. A deep ache grows in my heart as I walk the two blocks to church, the grief of a mother whose teenager’s troubles stretch far beyond her ability to solve. I try to articulate my feelings in prayer but cannot. Not knowing what else to do, I shove the groan in my soul God-ward, as if to say, “Here. This is what I mean. You know.” And God does. Holy Spirit, speak the words I cannot utter. —Julia Attaway Digging Deeper: Rom 8:26–28;1 Thes 5:17

Harvey wanted to dive into his ugliness; he intentionally reached for those long hours of soul desolation. He waited. He paced, ready to face down whatever was to come. Paulette’s, though, busted loose uninvited, catching her completely off guard when she was already hurting, feeling crumbled, and vulnerable. When all she really wanted was some quiet gentle feelings for a change. A few flowers. Some sunshine. A way out of all that inner torment for even just a moment. Had she had brought only nastiness out of her childhood? Hadn’t there been anything sweet she could remember instead? As she wandered back to her cabin, searching for even a single fond memory, light faded everywhere around her. Aw, c’mon, she thought. Everyone had some happy childhood memories. She had to have at least a couple. How about the coloring? Children enjoy coloring; how about that? She’d spent hours and days on her art. It was as close as she could remember to having her Mamma stand over her with anything even remotely resembling approval. Her books and comics could be tales of Jesus, but coloring books had to be Old Testament because “No child’s impure hand could touch a crayon to the sweet beautiful face of our beloved Lord and savior Christ Jesus.” So the little girl had scrunched down over Daniel in the lion’s den. Samson screaming in rage, pain, and terror as they blinded him with daggers and torches. The redder she made the flowing wounds of a man of God shot full of arrows, the richer the flames around those three men being burned in an iron box, the longer Mamma let her stay out of that closet. - From “The Gardens of Ailana

The Lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works. —Psalm 145:9 (KJV) The gray clouds hung below the mountain peaks, smothering the sun. A cold breeze brushed across my cheeks as I tossed hay in the feeder for the horses and mules. I glanced at the brown grass in the pasture rimmed by the skeletal trees. Not a sprig of life showed anywhere. The gloomies seeped into my soul. How I longed for signs of life! Lord, I need You to brighten my day. I heard a low bellow from the neighbors’ pasture a few hundred yards away. Uh-oh, it sounds like a cow’s having problems giving birth. The neighbors lived miles away and wouldn’t be back to check on the cows for a couple more hours. “C’mon, Sunrise,” I called to my golden retriever, “let’s go check it out.” As we neared the pasture, I noticed a lone black cow standing with her head down. Keeping my distance, I stood on tiptoes, craning my neck. A brand-new wet calf lay on the ground. “Isn’t this exciting? What a cute baby!” Sunrise’s nose wiggled as she caught the scent of the baby. For the next hour I sat in the pasture, watching the newborn struggle to stand on its stiltlike legs. I giggled as the calf sucked on its mom’s knees and elbows before it found the udder and slurped. Lord, when my days are glum, remind me to ask You to brighten them. —Rebecca Ondov Digging Deeper: Pss 8, 84:11

When the last of the dishes were put up, the floor swept, the Open sign turned off and the door latched, Preacher trudged slowly up the stairs to his old room. When he got there he found Christopher was jumping on the bed while beside it Paige stood holding his pajama top, trying to get him to settle down after his bath. She threw a look over her shoulder with a wan smile that said she was coming to the end of her rope. After all, she’d been trapped in the plane and car with him much of the day. “Okay, cowboy,” Preacher said, coming forward. He took the top out of Paige’s hands and held it for the boy. Christopher slipped his arms in and turned around so that Preacher could snap it up the back. “That a boy,” he said. Paige put a hand on Preacher’s forearm and said, “Please tuck in the cowboy and I’ll meet you downstairs.” Christopher lunged at Preacher, jumping on him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist, hugging him tight. “Wanna kiss Mommy good-night?” Preacher asked. Christopher leaned around Preacher a little, puckering, but didn’t let go. He got his kiss and Paige left them alone. “In you go,” Preacher said. “Read,” he said. “Aw, c’mon. It’s been a long day.” “Read,” he said. “One page.” “Okay, one page.” Preacher sat on the bed beside him and accepted the book. He read three pages. “Now you have to settle down.” He started whining and wiggling around. “Did someone give you sugar?” Preacher asked him. “Get into bed. Enough of this.” He tucked the covers around him and kissed his head. “See you happy in the morning.” “G’night,” Christopher said, snuggling down in the bed. When

Oh, c’mon, Boss. Where’s your sense of history?” “I like to read about history, not make it.” “You see, Boss? It’s because of attitudes like yours that there are so few human heroes.” “And so many humans.

([FELIX] suddenly stands up and cocks his arm back, about to hurl the cup angrily against the front door. Then he thinks better of it, puts the cup down and sits) OSCAR. (Watching this) Why didn’t you throw it? FELIX. I almost did. I get so insane with myself sometimes. OSCAR. Then why don’t you throw the cup? FELIX. Because I’m trying to control myself. OSCAR. Why? FELIX. What do you mean, why? OSCAR. Why do you have to control yourself? You’re angry, you felt like throwing the cup, why don’t you throw it? FELIX. Because there’s no point to it. I’d still be angry and I’d have a broken cup. OSCAR. How do you know how you’d feel? Maybe you’d feel wonderful. Why do you have to control every single thought in your head? Why don’t you let loose once in your life? Do something that you feel like doing—and not what you think you’re supposed to do. Stop keeping books, Felix. Relax. Get drunk. Get angry. C’mon, break the goddamned cup!

She totally liked you. Like, liked you liked you. She invited you to go to Disney World with her, for Pete’s sake! You don’t invite someone to go to Disney World with you unless you’re really into them.” “Not necessarily,” I said. “I’d go to Disney World with you. But that doesn’t mean I’m into you.” Zoe stopped smiling, like I’d said something wrong. “C’mon,” she said coldly. “Let’s go get our skis.” Then she clomped away in her ski boots.

Can the pair of you stop talking about geriatric sex for Christ’s sake? You should be done with all that by now.” “You jealous, son? Is your ol’ grandad getting it more than you?” Luke shook his head and headed back into the house. “C’mon, Winston, let’s go and get drunk.” The dog followed Luke.

Oh c’mon mate, lighten up. Most people slog through life without ever knowing the wonders of true insanity. I say enjoy the pink elephants while you got ‘em.

she has no one to walk Cujo.” I gasped in horror. “Cujo? I know we live in Stephen King’s home state, but c’mon. What kind of name is that for a dog, given, well, everything Cujo did?” Nan sighed but didn’t turn to face me. “Big talk from someone who named her pet Octo-Cat.

The next morning a squawking Fuzzbucket awoke Michele from her tossing and turning. Her head hurt from dreaming a series of chasing, getting-caught, getting-away dreams. She felt exhausted and not ready to hear about anymore crises from the three kids standing at the foot of her bed. "Michael! Move that drippy bottle," she grumbled. "It's a clue," Michael told her. "Big deal," Michele said, feeling ill at her brother and more ill at herself for taking it out on him. "Sorry, Mike," she added, reaching for the limp note he held out to her. She yawned. Rubbing the sleep from the corners of her eyes, she read the clue in a mumbled monotone: If not finding the head is what you fear, You'd better check out the Van . . ." "What the heck does this mean?" Michele asked irritably. "The rest of the word is washed away. It's just a smear of blue ink." She tossed the note back at them. "We know what it means!" Jo Dee squealed. "At least Brian does." Michele rubbed her tangled hair. The top of her head felt like a pile of pinestraw and she wasn't sure she liked Brian seeing her all messy. He just stood there in his neat jeans and tee shirt looking smart. "Oh, all right," she grumbled. "I give up. What does it mean?" "Well," said Brian. "I thought at first Van might be the beginning of the word "Vandyke" which is a pointy kind of beard like the artist Van Gogh wore." Michele yawned again and stretched back on her pillow as though she were bored and could doze off. "I know that," she barked. Brian sighed and turned on his heels. "C'mon, kids, let's leave Sleeping Ugly alone and start on this clue ourselves." "Wait!" Michele said, sitting upright. "I'm sorry. My head just hurts," she said, rubbing it dramatically as evidence. "Throbs—or rings?" Brian asked with a smile. "Clangs like a bell," Michele said, grinning back at him.

they’re thinking and all. It really is. I kept trying not to yawn. It wasn’t that I was bored or anything – I wasn’t – but I was so damn sleepy all of a sudden. “Something else an academic education will do for you. If you go along with it any considerable distance, it’ll begin to give you an idea what size mind you have. What it’ll fit and, maybe, what it won’t. After a while, you’ll have an idea what kind of thoughts your particular size mind should be wearing. For one thing, it may save you an extraordinary amount of time trying on ideas that don’t suit you, aren’t becoming to you. You’ll begin to know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly.” Then, all of a sudden, I yawned. What a rude bastard, but I couldn’t help it! Mr. Antolini just laughed, though. “C’mon, Holden,” he said, and got up. “We’ll fix up the couch for you.” I followed him and he went over to this closet and tried to take down some sheets and blankets and stuff that was on the top shelf, but he couldn’t do it with this highball glass in his hand. So he drank it and then put the glass down on the floor and then he took the stuff down. I helped him bring it over to the couch. We both made the bed together. He wasn’t too hot at it. He didn’t tuck anything in very tight. I didn’t care, though. I could’ve slept standing up I was so tired. “How’re all your women?” “They’re okay.” I was being a lousy conversationalist, but I didn’t feel like it.

C’mon. This has to beat hanging out in the corner of the mess hall with your knitting or a book.” I almost stopped to give him an incredulous look, then realized that he wouldn’t be able to see it, anyway. “Um, no.

C’mon, I need your help!” she whispered to the book. “You’re supposed to help me, and now would be an ideal time.

Jasper, wake up.” His mother shook his shoulder. “You need to get up, baby. Get dressed.” “What?” Jasper Leary opened his eyes. It was still dark outside his window. “What’s wrong?” “We’re goin’ up to the farm. Won’t that be fun, baby?” She flipped on the bedside lamp, blinding him for a moment. Jasper sat up and blinked at the windup clock on the bedside table. It wasn’t even 6: 00 a.m. “C’mon, sweetie,” she called from the hallway. “Let’s go! The day won’t wait.” He was only nine years