Crane Game Quotes

I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it...

Fear is just a game, Shiori, I reminded myself. You win by playing.

You're right. I'm not the kind of woman to do something foolish out of defiance. I am, however, the kind of woman who would do something just to prove that you can't tell me what kind of woman I am.

I don't see how I could possibly move a napkin with the power of my mind," I say. "All will be revealed." "Did you just say, 'All will be revealed'?" He looks up. "Yes." "Who says, 'All will be revealed'?" "I do," Packard says. "Just perform the task.

People want view of beauty. Pfft. I say, do not give me lies.

I'm used to desperate, buddy. Desperate's my factory default. But thanks anyway.

You wish to be free, but there is no such thing as freedom. You can redecorate dungeon to give illusion of freedom, but you are still in dungeon.” “I should’ve had the choice.” “Choice is illusion, same as happiness and freedom.

It’s all very deliciously diabolical my friend.” He smiles and I smile. We’re both pretty pleased with the plan. And increasingly pleased with each other.

God, Packard! Do you know how hard I worked at it?” I twist up the napkin and whip it at him. He deflects it. “There we go; I knew you could do it.” My mouth falls open. “Very funny.” He just laughs. “I can’t believe you!

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen The moon in lonely alleys make A grail of laughter of an empty ash can, And all through the sound of gaiety and quest Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.

There is a part of me that no one ever sees. I hide behind a mask of heavy make-up and ever-changing hair and clothing. I try to reinvent myself. It doesn’t work. There are times when I am bone-crushingly sad. I just want to curl into a ball and hide from the rest of the world. But, I plaster on a smile and play the game for my family and friends. They call me a free spirit. I wish I were free. I feel like I am imprisoned by my own mind.

Fashion magazine disease articles. My personal Kryptonite.

I said, have you seen your butt?" "Is that a rhetorical question?" I craned my neck to take a gander at my backside. Chloe clarified, "She means you have 'boy toy' written across the back of your jeans." "Oh." I nodded. "They're Josh's." "You say that as if it explains everything." She cocked her head to one side and considered me while buttoning her cardigan. "My stepbrothers dont write 'boy toy' across the back of their jeans.They only say the entire alphabet while burping." "That's nothing.Josh can recite the Gettysburg Address.

He pushes my lips open with his and we sink into each other. It’s crazy and wonderful every part of me is melty with desire. It’s all just breath and body between us.

Oh.” Packard steps back. “I didn’t come in here for this.” “I didn’t either.” There’s this silence where it seems like one of us ought to utter a sentence that begins with the word yet.

I got it right Justine. Feel into it. Your sense of being a misfit blinds you to what your heart really wants. When you get around solid upstanding men you’re like a bird with tinfoil. It makes you incoherent on a romantic level.” “My affection is incoherent unless it’s for you That’s the line you’re giving me here ” “This is real.” He points out the door. “That isn’t.

Mongolian Fondue," I say. "Very authentic.

Let’s play a game,” I shouted, echoing his earlier words. “You let go before I kill you.

I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane’s name on it,

Fear is just a game, I repeated to myself, over and over. You win by playing.

Suddenly I know just what I’m going to do. Something that will blow anything Peeta did right out of the water. I go over to the knot-tying station and get a length of rope. I start to manipulate it, but it’s hard because I’ve never made this actual knot myself. I’ve only watched Finnick’s clever fingers, and they moved so fast. After about ten minutes, I’ve come up with a respectable noose. I drag one of the target dummies out into the middle of the room and, using some chinning bars, hang it so it dangles by the neck. Tying its hands behind its back would be a nice touch, but I think I might be running out of time. I hurry over to the camouflage station, where some of the other tributes, undoubtedly the morphlings, have made a colossal mess. But I find a partial container of bloodred berry juice that will serve my needs. The flesh-colored fabric of the dummy’s skin makes a good, absorbent canvas. I carefully finger paint the words on its body, concealing them from view. Then I step away quickly to watch the reaction on the Gamemakers’ faces as they read the name on the dummy. *SENECA CRANE.*

What I was thinking, in that strange way you can think without words while you are dancing, think in glyphs, think in numbers, was how stupid it is that any of us are here, living. What an absurd game we play with ourselves, as if it mattered. We are all mad, all insane, all deluded. It is all for nothing, really, in the end.

I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane’s name on it,” I say. This has the desired effect. After a moment of disbelief, all the disapproval in the room hits me like a ton of bricks.

Dit is zeker geen goed moment om te zeggen dat ik een pop aan een strop heb gehangen en daar de naam van Seneca Crane op heb geschilderd? - Katniss

Normal is a precious kind of freedom, and if you don't have it, it's all you ever want.

If the Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, had had any brains, he’d have blown you to dust right then.

Fear is just a game. You win by playing.

You going to the game tonight?" I was about to answer,but another voice rang out from just behind me. "She'd better," Jack said as he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me back against him. I could smell the fresh leather on his letterman jacket as I crunched against it. "Why is that?" I asked,smiling and instantly warm in his arms.I still couldn't get over the fact that Jack Caputo and I were...together. It was hard to think the word. We had been friends for so long.To be honest, he had been friends with me and I had been secretly pining for him since...well, since forever. But now he was here. It was my waist he held. It didn't seem real. "I can't carry the team to victory without you," he said. "You're my rabbit's foot." I craned my neck around to look at him. "I've always dreamed of some guy saying that to me." He pressed his lips to the base of my neck, and heat rushed to my cheeks. "I love making you turn red," he whispered. "It doesn't take much. We're in the middle of the hallway." "You want to know what else I love?" His tone was playful. "No," I said, but he wasn't listening. He took his fingers and lightly railed them up my spine,to the back of my neck.Instant goose bumps sprang up all over my body,and I shuddered. "That." I could feel his smile against my ear. Jack was always smiling.It was what made him so likable. By this time,Jules had snaked her way through the throng of students. "Hello, Jack.I was in the middle of a conversation with Becks.Do you mind?" she said with a smirk. Right then a bunch of Jack's teammates rounded the corner at the end of the hallway,stampeding toward us. "Uh-oh," I said. Jack pushed me safely aside just before they tackled him, and Jules and I watched as what seemed like the entire football team heaped on top of their starting quarterback. "Dating Jack Caputo just might kill you one day." Jules laughed. "You sure it's worth it?" I didn't answer,but I was sure. In the weeks following my mother's death, I had spent nearly every morning sitting at her grave.Whispering to her, telling her about my day, like I used to each morning before she died. Jack came with me to the cemetary most days. He'd bring a book and read under a tree several headstones away,waiting quietly, as if what I was doing was totally normal. We hadn't even been together then. It had been only five months since my mom died. Five months since a drunk driver hit her during her evening jog. Five months since the one person who knew all my dreams disappeared forever. Jack was the reason I was still standing. Yeah,I was sure he was worth it.The only thing I wasn't sure about was why he was with me.

Saying good-bye to Ben is Sarina's least favorite activity. So sad the number of times she's had to do it. Ball games, recitals, the homes of friends, rented shore houses, through car windows after dropping off some forgotten camera to Annie. Goodbye. See you later. Nice seeing you. She has mastered it: A dismissive peck on the cheek. A hug like an afterthought. Telling herself, Do not watch him walk away. Watching him walk away. Watching him drive away. Watching him descend the stairs to the subway. How many times have they said goodbye to each other? Already tonight, twice. He interrupts her before she can get the second goodbye out. "How would you feel," he says, "about missing your train?" Once at the beach, Sarina watched a crane bathing in a gully at dusk. It used its wings to funnel the water over its back, then shook out the excess in a firework of droplets. After several minutes it took off, arcing out over the fretless sea. That felt like this.

You’d better marry her before she reaches eighteen and the spell wears off,” I said. “Spell?” “Yes. The one that’s hiding her fangs and pincers from plain sight.” “I don’t find them especially hidden,” he said mildly. “Then perhaps you’re a pair.” His brows lifted. “Now, that’s the cruelest thing you’ve said so far.” Mrs. Fredericks cleared off, and Chloe took her place before the piano. A beam of sunlight was just beginning its slide into the chamber, capturing her in light. She was a glowing girl with a glowing face, and Joplin at her fingertips. “Give me time,” I muttered, dropping my gaze to my plate. “I’ll come up with something worse.” “No doubt.” Armand pulled a flask from his jacket and shook it in front of my nose. “Whiskey. Conveniently the same color as tea. Are you game, waif?” I glanced around, but no one was looking. I lifted my cup, drained it to the dregs, and set it before him. He was right. It did look like tea. But it tasted like vile burning fire, all the way down my throat. “Sip it,” he hissed, as I began to cough. His voice lifted over my sputtering. “Dear me, Miss Jones, I do beg your pardon. The tea’s rather hot; I should have mentioned it.” “Quite all right,” I gasped, as the whiskey swirled an evil amber in my teacup. Chloe’s song grew bouncier, with lyrics about a girl with strawberries in a wagon. Several of the men had begun to cluster near, drawn to her soprano or perchance her bosom. Two were vying to turn the pages of her music. She had to crane her head to keep Armand in view. He sent her another smile from his chair, lifting his cup in salute. “I’m going to kiss you, Eleanore,” he said quietly, still looking at her. “Not now. Later.” His eyes cut back to mine. “I thought it fair to tell you first.” I stilled. “If you think you can do so without me biting your lip, feel free to try.” His gaze shone wicked blue. “I don’t mind if you bite.” “Biting your lip off, I should have said.” “Ah. Let’s see how it goes, shall we?

In Anton Chekhov’s play the Three Sisters, sister Masha refuses ‘to live and not know why the cranes fly, why children are born, why the stars are in the sky. Either you know and you’re alive or it’s all nonsense, all dust in the wind.’ Why? Why? The striving to know is what frees us from the bonds of self, said Einstein. It’s the striving to know, rather than our knowledge-which is always tentative and partial- that is important. Instead of putting computers in our elementary schools, we should take the children out into nature, away from those virtual worlds in which they spend unconscionable hours, and let them see an eclipsed Moon rising in the east, a pink pearl. Let them stand in a morning dawn and watch a slip of a comet fling its trail around the Sun…Let the children know. Let them know that nothing, nothing will find in the virtual world of e-games, television, or the Internet matters half as much as a glitter of strs on an inky sky, drawing our attention into the incomprehensible mystery of why the universe is here at all, and why we are here to observe it. The winter Milky Way rises in the east, one trillion individually invisible points of light, one trillion revelations of the Ultimate Mystery, conferring on the watcher a dignity, a blessedness, that confounds the dull humdrum of the commonplace and opens a window to infinity.

A voice: “My goodness, Nurse Jones.” I look up, startled. Simon’s in the doorway, leaning against the frame, smiling. No doubt I’m quite the sight in my bloody, sexy nurse’s outfit, sitting on a bed next to a tied-up, taped-up target. “Oh, please.” I collect my purse, my phone and my stun gun and walk around the bed. Simon’s smile reaches deep into his dark blue eyes. He has a long face and delicate features for a man. I grab the sleeve of his black jacket and pull him into the outer room. “What the fuck are you wearing? You look insane,” he says. “This? This is the creepy outfit the Alchemist put me in after he kidnapped me.” Simon stops smiling. “Are you okay?” “Yeah.

The Roman general wanted to spare Archimedes, because he was so valuable—sort of like the Einstein of the ancient world—but some stupid Roman soldier killed him.” “There you go again,” Hazel muttered. “Stupid and Roman don’t always go together, Leo.” Frank grunted agreement. “How do you know all this, anyway?” he demanded. “Is there a Spanish tour guide around here?” “No, man,” Leo said. “You can’t be a demigod who’s into building stuff and not know about Archimedes. The guy was seriously elite. He calculated the value of pi. He did all this math stuff we still use for engineering. He invented a hydraulic screw that could move water through pipes.” Hazel scowled. “A hydraulic screw. Excuse me for not knowing about that awesome achievement.” “He also built a death ray made of mirrors that could burn enemy ships,” Leo said. “Is that awesome enough for you?” “I saw something about that on TV,” Frank admitted. “They proved it didn’t work.” “Ah, that’s just because modern mortals don’t know how to use Celestial bronze,” Leo said. “That’s the key. Archimedes also invented a massive claw that could swing on a crane and pluck enemy ships out of the water.” “Okay, that’s cool,” Frank admitted. “I love grabber-arm games.” “Well, there you go,” Leo said. “Anyway, all his inventions weren’t enough. The Romans destroyed his city. Archimedes was killed.

Children wandered the streets below, dressed as witches and skeletons and beings with magical powers. Yes. All Hallow’s Eve. So innocent, so trusting: a night when evil is just a game and children roam the night with certainty – or hope – that nothing monstrous exists.

The realtor was a tool.

the idea of radical equality Kassar cited in response to Crane’s request—programmer being equal to assembly line worker—had a precedent. In the early days, Bushnell maintained a policy that no one would be fired (although they might be denied a raise) and ensured that everyone, from executives to assembly line workers, had the same health care plan. But with VCS development organized along a model of the lone programmer who was almost completely, individually responsible for a sometimes very lucrative game, it became less tenable to claim that the programmer was no more important than any other human resource.

I won’t be like every other male in your life, Sophelia.” My heart nearly stopped and I felt hot all over. I realized I was swooning. “I won’t just take things from you if you haven’t given them to me.” I gulped. Oh, no. He had to stop. I had to harden myself against him right now. I could feel myself getting even softer, mush, cookie dough, or what I imagined cookie dough to be anyway. I couldn’t have that. I had to be a stone. I couldn’t afford to be soft for him or anyone else. No more games. This man had to stop trying to make me fall in love with him.

The Veteran and the Whooping Cranes I sit and watch the rain through the windowpanes, I see a weather vane, a sedge of whooping cranes; persistently, my leg complains of its wartime injury. I live alone in a saltbox home off the coast of Maine with my books, my pain, walks down memory lane, sustained by poetry, God and the reminiscence game to ease my misery.

The morning wore on. And then the afternoon, and so far the only real danger had been from boredom. Romeo must have been feeling the same, because he started reciting poetry to himself—not out loud, but saying it in his head, and Paris couldn’t help hearing it. Pale flowers like snow have covered the ground, said Romeo in Mahyanai, and waited. It was a very pointed silence. He didn’t need a word or a look to let Paris know that he was waiting for a response. You know what comes next, said Romeo. No, I don’t, said Paris. Except he did. He could hear the next line in the back of his mind: The year has turned to spring, but the ground is still cold. If he just opened his mouth, the words would flow out in perfect, unaccented Mahyanai. Yes, you do, said Romeo, sounding gleeful. Because even though Paris had trained for years, somehow Romeo was able to slip past his walls and speak in his head. Is there a point to this? Paris demanded. To pass the time, said Romeo. Do you Catresou never play at turning phrases? I have no idea what that means, said Paris, craning his neck to examine a new clump of people forcing their way into the marketplace. It’s a game. One of us says a line from a poem, the other says the next. Back and forth. Sounds like a game for girls, said Paris. Juliet liked it, Romeo said agreeably. Juliet liked you, said Paris. I don’t

Farfar had the Wii already fired up when I stepped out of the bathroom from my shower, the menu music from Mario Kart blaring from the living room TV. Koopa---the cat, not the character---was curled up on Farfar's lap in his spot at the end of the couch. One hand held his beer on top of his stomach, the other ran through Koopa's gray fur, both of their eyes closed in bliss. I sank into the other end of the couch and grabbed my controller. "All cleaned up and ready for your whooping?" he asked, pronouncing it, like always, with long OOs, like the crane. He raised his beer to his lips with his eyes still closed. This was probably number two already. "Not tonight, old man. I'm in the zone, and you're looking tired." His eyes were open then, a smirk on his face, and he produced his special blue remote---the best Lillajul gifts I'd ever gotten him---from the cushion beside him. "Do you need to ease in with Mushroom Gorge, or are you ready to play for real?" "I'm ready for any course you want," I said, smirking back. He just chuckled---without the jollity he gave the guys outside C of C, I noticed---went straight to Rainbow Road, and promptly destroyed me. Afterward, sinking back into the couch with a third beer and a number of victories under his belt, he let out a long sigh. "You did good today, Gubben." I smiled. "I'm picking a new character.

Seriously, just pretend I'm not here." He walks us into the kitchen and bends to look in refrigerator, making me grip tighter. He fills a glass and I press my ear to his neck to listen to him swallow I tighten my legs around him, and he slides a hand to my butt and squeezes it once in a friendly way. Then he gives it a slap. "Ow, what's in your pocket?" "Oh." I remember now and feel like a nerd. I slither down to my feet. "It's nothing." "It hurt my hand." He pulls the lumpy shape out of my pocket and cranes to see what he's found. "It's a Smurf. Of course. What else would you fill your pockets with? Why does it have a bow on it?" "I have, like, ten of him. It's Grouchy Smurf.

I said, have you seen your butt?” “Is that a rhetorical question?” I craned my neck to take a gander at my backside. Chloe clarified, “She means you have ‘boy toy’ written across the back of your jeans.” “Oh.” I nodded. “They’re Josh’s.” “You say that as if it explains everything.

Glass breaks. Silverware clatters. He lifts a chair and brings it down with a loud crack. Then he smashes another chair into the wall, destroying a pair of brightly painted plaster horse heads, and then he hurls it into the pagoda mirror. Shards explode out over the dining room, and still he doesn't stop. I have this impulse to do something, comfort him somehow, but when a person needs to break a lot of stuff, it's best to let them do it.

I looked over the side of the roller coaster as it climbed to the top of the first hill with a series of loud clacks. The night was dark and cold, but the theme park was lit up with fairy lights and neon arcade games below. The nippy breeze flirted with the hems of sweaters and blew hats off the heads of unsuspecting park guests. Soon, the seasonal theme park would close, as it would be too cold to run the rides, but for now, I could enjoy the brief view of Denver from one hundred feet above the ground. Screams built around me—some scared, others excited—as the first car of the coaster crested the top of the hill. I craned my neck, savoring the liberation of the sky, even if I was strapped into a padded harness, and put my hands up. My boyfriend, Jacob, reached up and linked our fingers together

About that last one: these thoughts never leave my mind. They have season tickets in the nosebleed section. They eat popcorn and cotton candy and get trashed on beer. They chat loudly amongst themselves, taking photos instead of watching the game, and I am able to keep them drunk and glued to their seats as long as I stay busy, busy with errands, busy with work calls, busy with cooking, busy with playing. Once I stop moving, that’s when the fans sneak past the distracted security guards, down to the field, where they blow the whole place up.

I chose to promote freedom and transformation.” He tilts his head. “Is that a motto?” “You should get a motto, too, Packard.” “A motto is a pathetic substitute for an opinion.

Peace and serenity isn’t about adding something,” he says. “It’s about getting rid of something.

As she craned her neck further she finally saw his face. She knew her mouth must have been gaping open like a clown in a ball toss game but she couldn't help it. His face was without a doubt the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was the kind of face that should have been gracing the pages of magazines, not the sidewalks of suburban Melbourne. The kind of face that made her yearn for her sketchbook and pencil. He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Sachi was, with dishwater blonde hair cut short and styled meticulously, a pointed jaw and hollow cheeks. His eyes were the colour of storm clouds and framed by lashes any girl would kill for. He was a contradiction of sharp edges and porcelain smooth. He could have been carved out of marble. He couldn't be real.