Dystopian Book Quotes

You’re easy to read, Ivy, but the whole book of you is complicated.

He didn’t save me, though. He allowed me the freedom to save myself, which is the very best type of rescue.

In response to be asked about Boris Johnson becoming UK Prime Minister... "I'm delighted. As the UK continues to plunge ever faster into a future akin to a dystopian novel I'll never run out of material to write more books. Although now that reality is more bizarre than fiction maybe plot-lines will need to be more ambitious. Perhaps a book where Boris Johnson is really an accidental sentient snafu of Trump's scrotum lint. Kind of a sequel to the Bush-Blair story. I see musical rights being drawn up as we speak.

Holy Christ, people, we’ve accidentally done what we sold to the public.

And what would they be scared of? There's nothing to fear in a perfect world, is there?

She was hot. You could take a poll, write a book, break down all the reasons, the intellectual and physical gifts that shaped her personality, and whatever that intangible part was. Write poems about it, document it all in photos and movies, try to stay woke, but the reality was, what it all came back to, she was hot.

However, they were still banned, so that humans could chart their own destiny.

You don't stop loving someone just because they disappoint you.

There might be some lost tribe somewhere on the planet who hadn’t been exposed to the movies and books of the genre, but these eight men—Mills was the oldest at 28—had grown up in a world where reanimated dead who shambled along eating brains were part of the fabric of everyday life. Where zombie movies equated to drinking games, late night laughs, and getting laid.

They are fully under our control and nowhere as powerful as the old AIs of the past. They’re individual machines and cannot control vast networks.”


Don’t worry; you can have your freedom to do what you like. I won’t say anything to my father. My feelings will have to be sacrificed for the greater cause, I suppose.

Loyalty is the key to our survival. Without it, we are just like them.

Helen dared to look up without being invited to do so. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, Lady Consort.” “Kindness had nothing to do with it. You have skills and training I need just now, and I intend to use you shamelessly, and expose you to greater danger.” “Get in line, Lady Consort,” Helen replied. “Danger-filled usury seems to be a holiday pastime in this city.” The Consort stopped pretending to do her needlework. “I could have you whipped for such insolence, girl.” “Before or after you use me.

If you put enough sheep together you have a herd- a force to be reckoned with.

The scars are just something that happened to me. They aren't me. Not anymore.

I pat Eden's head. "I'll be right back okay? Stay on the bench. Don't go anywhere. If someone tries to make you move, you scream. Got it?

My mission is not to make him happy and bear his children and be his wife. My mission is to kill him.

I just want to be with you. Walk next to you, Ivy, wherever you're headed. That's all.

You won't find the tales I bear in any books . . . My tales are from the Moon Realm.” —Ebb Autumn

I want you to be mine alone and I want to give you everything.

Oh, do shut up, boy. It’s not like I’ve ever been one for goodbyes.", FADE by Kailin Gow

In the First Incursion, many millions of imperial citizens perished because we weren’t prepared. The Globur took advantage of that weakness. We must not visit this conflict on our children as we have recently done, for they may not survive.

I know my brother. It comes down to it, to saving your life or saving his crown, we both know what he will choose.

Memory is all we really have. All we are. Without memories to give us a context for what’s happening around us, anything could be happening.", Falling (FADE Book 2) by Kailin Gow

Jack Simple. Though the name is ironic, because there is never anything simple about Jack.", Falling (Fade Book 2) by Kailin Gow

If you can direct the power you call up, it can do a lot.”, FADE by Kailin Gow

  “The Fleet made a choice. A choice for humanity. The Grand Admiral gave the Senate a stark choice—conscription or augmentation.

In theory, solar storm activity could act like an EMP, damaging electronic equipment and causing power surges. And we’ve just experienced the solar storm to end all solar storms.”, FADE by Kailin Gow

Bishop stares at me. "What do you want me to say, Ivy?" he asks finally. "That I agree with what my father did? That I don't? What's the answer you're looking for?" "I'm not looking for a specific answer," I tell him, although the part of me that's been coached to kill him hopes he agrees with his father. "I want to know what you think." "I think," Bishop says, "that we can love our families without trusting everything they tell us. Without championing everything they stand for." He delivers the words matter-of-factly, but his eyes are locked on mine. "I think that sometimes things aren't as simple as our fathers want us to believe.

That night we played truth or dare. You said that after a while you stopped trying to earn your mother's affection." I pause. "Why didn't you give up with me, too?" "You know why," he says quietly. I close my eyes. I do know, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to hear it. But some part of me must be, because I wouldn't have asked the question otherwise, not of Bishop, the boy who never chooses to say something easy just because the truth is hard. Maybe I want to hear it so that i will know, once and for all, that there is no going back. "Because I'm in love with you, Ivy," he whispers. "Giving up on you isn't an option." He lifts my hair away from the back of my neck and kisses the delicate skin there. My breath shudders out of me. The silence spirals into the dark room, and maybe it was foolish to ask the question, but I'm not sorry. I uncurl his hand and kiss his palm, his skin cool and dry. I place his hand over my heart, cover it with my own. We fall asleep that way. His lips on my neck. My heart in his hand.

You must remember, burn them or they'll burn you...

Who do you want to turn into?" I mean the question to be mocking, but that's not how it comes out. I sound interested. I reach down and scratch my leg, trying to hid my embarrassment. Bishop looks at me. "Someone honest. Someone who tries to do the right thing. Someone who follows his own heart, even if it disappoints people." He pauses. "Someone brave enough to be all those things." A boy who doesn't want to lie, married to a girl who can't tell the truth. If there is a God, he has a sick sense of humor.

You have given much to the Fleet and the empire, and humanity needs you one last time. Standby for quantum drive. We are the sword of humanity. We will prevail. Battle stations.

The more I write stories for young people, and the more young readers I meet, the more I'm struck by how much kids long to see themselves in stories. To see their identities and perspectives—their avatars—on the page. Not as issues to be addressed or as icons for social commentary, but simply as people who get to do cool things in amazing worlds. Yes, all the “issue” books are great and have a place in literature, but it's a different and wildly joyous gift to find yourself on the pages of an entertainment, experiencing the thrills and chills of a world more adventurous than our own. And when you see that as a writer, you quickly realize that you don't want to be the jerk who says to a young reader, “Sorry, kid. You don't get to exist in story; you're too different.” You don't want to be part of our present dystopia that tells kids that if they just stopped being who they are they could have a story written about them, too. That's the role of the bad guy in the dystopian stories, right? Given a choice, I'd rather be the storyteller who says every kid can have a chance to star.

But there's something fundamentally wrong in a system where a girl like Meredith would even consider staying with a boy like Dylan if she has the chance to be free of him.

There must be something in books, things we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing.

I don’t understand,” Cranston replied, rattled. “Just who the hell are you to carry a Tier 7 clearance usually reserved for the senior staff, as a rear admiral?” Zenke held up a finger. “As the longest-serving rear admiral.

We call it the First Incursion because another came after it.” Homer Sanderson nodded. “Rest assured, there will be more if we don’t act.

There are so many signs in the Book of Revelations, and we know from our research that they happened. They will happen, I should say. The false prophet, the Serpent, acquires followers. He brings fire upon the Earth, he takes away religious freedom to force everyone to worship him. He promises prosperity, but just brings plague instead.", FADE by Kailin Gow

I want to see you naked. I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. I just...want.

Funny how if you were reading his dystopian sci-fi novel with a minor subplot about fascists ruling Korea, you'd be taken to jail. So you gotta wonder. Do they ban books because they see danger in their authors, or because they see themselves in their villains?

My skin burs under Maven's gaze, with the memory of one stolen kiss. It was him who saved me from Evangeline. Cal who saved me from escaping and bringing more pain upon myself. Cal who saved me from conscription. I've been too busy trying to save others to notice how much Cal saves me. How much he loves me.

I made so many promises when I arrived here. Now I'm not so sure. Now I'm worried. Now my mind is a traitor because my thoughts crawl out of bed every morning with darting eyes and sweating palms and nervous giggles that sit in my chest, build in my chest, threaten to burst through my chest, and the pressure is tightening and tightening and tightening Life around here isn't what I expected it to be.

LLMs represent some of the most promising yet ethically fraught technologies ever conceived. Their development plots a razor’s edge between utopian and dystopian potentials depending on our choices moving forward.

What’s not to love? I made friends with a pretty girl and now we get to plan a castle break in. This beats the day to day kill, eat and survive.

Relax," the girl says. She holds out a hand but doesn't touch me. "We're not going to hurt you." "Yet," the man in the doorway says with a smirk.

You asked if I knew John Forest,” he said heavily. “I knew the person you know as John Forest. I liked him. He was the most gifted fighter pilot I have ever seen. He gave us a miracle—and hope—in those dark days of the First Incursion when we were losing. Here’s to John Forest, or whoever he really was.” Jones raised his glass and took another sip of his whiskey.

Where am I?” I ask. “Where are my parents and my brother? Where’s my home? And who are you?” He blinks a couple of times before smiling faintly as though something has just amused him. “I’m afraid you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Wizard of Oz references? I’m somewhere, I don’t know where, and that’s the best I get? Well, I’m not some dumb little girl willing to put up with that, and he certainly isn’t any kind of wizard. - Celestra Caine, FADE by Kailin Gow

The question of this book is simple: What is the best use of my smartphone in the flourishing of my life? To that end, my aim is to avoid both extremes: the utopian optimism of the technophiliac and the dystopian pessimistic of the technophobe.

The Martians want to build a 2:b colony on Titan and not allow mixing of species, while the Bug and black market investors here on Earth want to experiment on them. Both the red and the blue planets have devilish plans for your people, I'm afraid.

So, the book is not 'anti-religion.' It is against the use of religion as a front for tyranny; which is a different thing altogether.

You have no idea," she whispered, repeating the first secret Ben had given her. "How fast my heart beats every time you're near.

I'm not a complete idiot, you know," I tell him. "I do think about alternatives if things were to change in Westfall." Bishop swings his legs off the sofa and sits forward, facing me. "I have never, not for a single second, thought you were an idiot, Ivy." "You listen to your father, too, don't you?" I ask him. Bishop looks down at his clasped hands, then back up at me. "Sometimes I just think that because of who we are... the president's son and the founder's daughter..." He rolls his eyes, making me smile. "It's doubly important that we think for ourselves. We're not our parents. We don't have to agree with everything they stand for.

The James Bond movies and the comic books had it all wrong. You did not need elaborate contraptions, complicated plans, and futuristic doomsday weapons to wipe out of all of humankind. All you needed was a fully realized vision and an intense focus. All you needed to do is give a little push to what was already happening; what was inevitable. All you had to do is get one group of people who believe in an invisible man in the sky to get really pissed off at another group of people who believe in a slightly different version of the same invisible man in the sky.

People. And the brutal things we do to one another. The fence shakes against my cheek and I turn, careful to keep my gaze lifted. I don't have it in me to look at her again. Bishop is grasping the chain-link with both hands, knuckles white, his eyes closed. His whole body is wound tight as a spring, like if I reached for him he would simply break apart at the joints, splinter into a hundred pi8eces. I don't try to touch him. He lets out a yell and then another and another, loud and wild and out of control. He shakes the fence hard with both hands. His anger and frustration are more potent somehow because they are unexpected. When his scream fades into silence, he rests his forehead against the metal. "Sometimes," he says, voice raw, "I hate this place." He twists his neck and looks at me, hands still hooked in the fence above his head. "I know," I say, barely a whisper. "Me, too.

I concentrate on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other and continue moving forward even as part of me is left behind, beyond a fence I cannot breach.

I would rather never make a penny on book sales and know that many had derived some fair pleasure from my writing, than to know that very few had ever taken a chance on my work. I certainly won't last forever, but I'd love to think that my imagination will continue to surface in the minds of others.

Books don't change lives... People change lives... Sometimes, if you're lucky, if you get the thing right, a book can say some important things and that's all fine and good... but a book is just an artifact... a thing that sits on a desk or a shelf... People make the real difference... People and love...

But really, that is kind of silly,' Abigail tried to explain. 'I mean, a book is much less personal than a programmed screen that can respond to you according to your needs, and concentrate on what's hard for you, and go fast on what's easy. A book stays the same no matter *who's* reading it. And anyway, I don't see how anyone could read a whole long book, it must be so boring!' 'But...but it wasn't,' Peter said faintly. 'I...almost forgot I was reading it. The...the whole story was going on in my head.' 'I still don't understand,' said Oliver. 'I mean, watching a real-life hologram right before your eyes is better than anything you could *imagine.*

He glances back at me. "But there's hardly ever any activity outside the fence these days, at least close by. Only the people we put out, and they rarely try to get back into Westfall. I guess they figure it's better to take your chances out there than be guaranteed a death sentence in here." "Either option sounds pretty horrible to me." Bishop shrugs. "I don't know, sometimes I think we should just tear down the fence. Towns didn't have fences around them before the war and everything was fine. I think it was supposed to keep us safe, but instead it's made us scared.

Sometimes we like more than one and that's okay too. It's not like you have a finite source of love and if you share it too much it will drain twice as fast. You love them for different reasons, because they speak to different parts of your soul.

Tendrils of mist began to creep into the landscape, like the slow fingers of a dream. They covered the river's surface and blanketed the air so thoroughly that Musashi had to reach down with a pole to reassure himself that he was still on the Nile.

I think people make it out to be something that's complicated, maybe because there are a million emotions involved and we all haven't become mind readers yet, but it's not, it's terribly simple. You like who you like and maybe if you're lucky they like you too.

Over the past couple of months, Chantel had become a pro at leading book discussions and inventing fun games and trivia questions that all related to that particular month's book selection. Although, last month's theme, dystopian and the book selection "Matched" by Allie Condie, had the retirement home director a little concerned when everyone wanted to stop taking their medications. Not... a good... thing!

Don't know when my life came to visualising intense pain and tragedy to putting it down on paper, to putting across a message of love in times of abject hate. Thank you everybody and the conspiracy of the stars for showing me this day. To many, many more books, inshallah, and to many more launches.

He shuffled to the door and didn’t look back. In his memory she would remain there forever, in her scarlet robe, surrounded by the dusty feathers of dead birds.

Biking up the same mile-and-a-half long asphalt hill is so much harder when I know that at the end of the journey I’ll either be an outlaw, or I’ll be dead.

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I was in a place I had never visited before and I didn’t want to ever visit again. I was in hell, or so I thought…

In exchange for material reassurance, little-by-little we, the people of Avantica, gave up our basic freedoms.

I have no idea what I'm doing. What if I fail them all?

To Lilo, Suleika, Constance, and Raul, thank you for coming up with some really good character names when I was in a pinch.

no one knew how quickly a human changed into a monster. All she could do was love him until that day came.

dressed in pajamas, snatched from sleep, and dead before she ever had a chance to wake up.

Of course this means you'll have to deal with two people's crazy instead of one, but I always thought you could handle it.

He let out a sigh. “Thank you.” He lowered his head to her chest.

I'm better for you,” he said

who want to control the size of their families and better manage their limited resources.

He flashed the group an angelic smile.

who all wore thin skins of humanity to cloak the beast lurking below the surface.

Now I know you're lying.” His fingers slipped under the waistband of her panties. “In the morning you think of blood, knives and... me.

As Grayson breathed, he felt the wild and its ever-moving dance going from one location to the next. He sighed, knowing already the ambivalence the elements felt for his situation.

A book is a loaded gun in the house next door.

Our choices in these next few moments could only change how we suffered. Not if. From everything I could see, that was already decided.

The Slither that she'd passed was no longer there, the body it had been consuming lay discarded, ribs spread and innards glistening. The Slither had found tastier prospects— her.

the young looked to the old and tried to blame them; the old looked to the young and despaired that nothing had changed and this was the world they’d brought them into.

I want the next goddamn tyrant who tries to burn the past down to choke on the ash.

When immortality comes at the cost of humanity, rebellion is inevitable." ― *Ascension Divide*

That’s how they keep you quiet. Forget the shape of your soul, and you start mistaking silence for peace.

They’ve turned language into a weapon. Make people afraid of the truth and they’ll burn it themselves.

dripped down her neck and stained the collar of her shirt. It was a mirror to the wash of blood pouring from her scalp, blinding her left eye and trailing down her cheek like macabre tears.

The books I was given to learn from were about a boy and a girl called Dick and Jane. The books were very old, and the pictures had been altered at Ardua Hall. Jane wore long skirts and sleeves, but you could tell from the places where the paint had been applied that her skirt had once been above her knees and her sleeves had ended above her elbows. Her hair had once been uncovered.

He gripped the little book tightly, staring at its dark blue cover, its silver designs, and its ribbon bookmark. Imprinted on the front in gold lettering was the Greek word μπλεβιβλιο. Bluebook.

No one survives beyond the fence. At least that's what my father always told me when I was a child. But I'm not a little girl anymore, and I no longer believe in the words of my father. He told me the Lattimers were cruel and deserved to die. He told me my only choice was to kill the boy I loved. He has been wrong about so many things. And I'm determined that he's going to be wrong about my survival as well.

There were some people who thought that Slithers looked like humans, and while they did share the same basic shape, their claws, their teeth, their inhuman appetites shifted them firmly to the realm of monster.

He caught the swell of her hip between his teeth and bit down. There was a purpling mark just outside her hipbone when he raised his head. He returned her waistband back to its original position and lovingly patted the mark.

One kiss wouldn't be so bad, but-- No. That was the problem right there. It would be a gateway kiss. Then there'd be tongue and heavy breathing and feelings. I needed to nip that right in the bud. Because after the kissing came all the dying.

Their conversation ceased abruptly with the entry of an oddly-shaped man whose body resembled a certain vegetable. He was a thickset fellow with calloused and jaundiced skin and a patch of brown hair, a frizzy upheaval. We will call him Bell Pepper. Bell Pepper sidled up beside The Drippy Man and looked at the grilled cheese in his hand. The Drippy Man, a bit uncomfortable at the heaviness of the gaze, politely apologized and asked Bell Pepper if he would like one. “Why is one of your legs fatter than the other?” asked Bell Pepper. The Drippy Man realized Bell Pepper was not looking at his sandwich but towards the inconsistency of his leg sizes. “You always get your kicks pointing out defects?” retorted The Drippy Man. “Just curious. Never seen anything like it before.” “I was raised not to feel shame and hide my legs in baggy pants.” “So you flaunt your deformity by wearing short shorts?” “Like you flaunt your pockmarks by not wearing a mask?” Bell Pepper backed away, kicking wide the screen door, making an exit to a porch over hanging a dune of sand that curved into a jagged upward jab of rock. “He is quite sensitive,” commented The Dry Advisor. “Who is he?” “A fellow who once manipulated the money in your wallet but now curses the fellow who does.

Imagine how cool it would be to share this with someone. It's cozy, you can build things from scratch, there's this whole radiation-weather-hermit-hole vibe, endless books, terrible movies, and giant fuck-you monsters wait right outside. Imagine the adventure!

Faith is not lost all at once; it is forgotten piece by piece. God allows his children to walk away, but he waits for our return, and our way back begins with remembering. If we forget our past, ignore the present, and do not protect the future we forget the truth.

For every path that leads to success, there are a million billion paths to failure. The Anchor’s quest is to live her life again and again and again until she finds the one true path. Only then can she shepherd humanity from bloodshed and destruction to peace and harmony.

James would only look for music composed and performed by humans. Nowadays people didn’t feel the need to learn to play musical instruments. And why would they, since the sounds they produced could be perfectly generated digitally. Human voices were sample recorded, then modified and remastered by artificial intelligence. Where did our creativity go?

We wrote this book because we must channel our rage, our heartbreak, and our love of country to fight for our home and prevent a dark, dystopian future in which immigrants are no longer part of the story of America,” Mendoza says. “We must declare ourselves sanctuary for not only immigrants but for everyone who is vulnerable to the violence of white supremacy..

Why you?” “I don't know, ask him.” “I'm asking you, so, why don't you just come out and say it?” Rafe released the door, letting it close. “What are we talking about?” I dug my nails into my palms, letting the pain brace me for his answer. “Is he your father?” Rafe's smile returned. “Nope. I'm not your brother, Lane. I know that's got to be a disappointment.” He paused, considering it. “Or maybe not. Now you can throw yourself at me. Just not when Mack's around okay? He's not my dad, but he is the guy who busted me out of an orphan camp when I was ten.

Twenty years? No kidding: twenty years? It’s hard to believe. Twenty years ago, I was—well, I was much younger. My parents were still alive. Two of my grandchildren had not yet been born, and another one, now in college, was an infant. Twenty years ago I didn’t own a cell phone. I didn’t know what quinoa was and I doubt if I had ever tasted kale. There had recently been a war. Now we refer to that one as the First Gulf War, but back then, mercifully, we didn’t know there would be another. Maybe a lot of us weren’t even thinking about the future then. But I was. And I’m a writer. I wrote The Giver on a big machine that had recently taken the place of my much-loved typewriter, and after I printed the pages, very noisily, I had to tear them apart, one by one, at the perforated edges. (When I referred to it as my computer, someone more knowledgeable pointed out that my machine was not a computer. It was a dedicated word processor. “Oh, okay then,” I said, as if I understood the difference.) As I carefully separated those two hundred or so pages, I glanced again at the words on them. I could see that I had written a complete book. It had all the elements of the seventeen or so books I had written before, the same things students of writing list on school quizzes: characters, plot, setting, tension, climax. (Though I didn’t reply as he had hoped to a student who emailed me some years later with the request “Please list all the similes and metaphors in The Giver,” I’m sure it contained those as well.) I had typed THE END after the intentionally ambiguous final paragraphs. But I was aware that this book was different from the many I had already written. My editor, when I gave him the manuscript, realized the same thing. If I had drawn a cartoon of him reading those pages, it would have had a text balloon over his head. The text would have said, simply: Gulp. But that was twenty years ago. If I had written The Giver this year, there would have been no gulp. Maybe a yawn, at most. Ho-hum. In so many recent dystopian novels (and there are exactly that: so many), societies battle and characters die hideously and whole civilizations crumble. None of that in The Giver. It was introspective. Quiet. Short on action. “Introspective, quiet, and short on action” translates to “tough to film.” Katniss Everdeen gets to kill off countless adolescent competitors in various ways during The Hunger Games; that’s exciting movie fare. It sells popcorn. Jonas, riding a bike and musing about his future? Not so much. Although the film rights to The Giver were snapped up early on, it moved forward in spurts and stops for years, as screenplay after screenplay—none of them by me—was

I push hard against the kitchen table as I stand up, my chair screeching against the floor. "You know, you're just as bad as the rest of them. You brought me up to know what's good and what's bad, when in reality you've turned a blind eye to the worst of the worst this whole time.

If this book has come into your possession, I do not envy you. The account that follows is both highly sensitive and deeply unsettling. If it has not been banned yet, I suspect it will be soon.

Dystopian fiction isn't a prediction of the future but an interpretation of the present.

A friend made of an enemy is no ordinary friend.

I'm beginning to suspect everyone in the Arc walks around with fake grins, waiting for the day when they, too, will break.

Caring is for the weak.

It's a way of life," He says, anger palpable in his voice. It's the Directorate's way of exerting their power. It's only a matter of time before they begin broadcasting the killings as a warning to anyone who's considering a rebellion. It won't end unless we make it end.

For a long time, those paintings represented someone I'd lost. The most important man in my life. Now, they represented a best friend I've lost, too.

If I do that, you'll kill me," I hiss. "Which would be counterproductive. I don't feel like dying tonight.

But please- for your own sake- stop threatening to assassinate my mother.

I'm saying you're too impulsive," Finn snaps. "You don't think. Use some common sense, for God's sake.

Look- they're training us to be loyal little sheep. But sheep get slaughtered by wolves, and this place is full of them.

Learning D-com was akin to learning CPR. No one mentions a victim could throw up in your mouth. In extractions, no one tells you what could go awry. Jake had read about the process long before her first case, but book learning went only so far.

She would’ve preferred to have been anywhere else but a Walmart—it felt equal parts dystopian and apocalyptic, like this was the last big-box department store operating in the end times. Those who haunted the aisles and shelves were a motley mix: camo-clad doomsday preppers with their ass cracks showing; old white men who wore cowboy hats because apparently that was still a thing here in upstate PA; chunky girls with too-tight glitter-script spandex swallowed by hungry, hungry butt cheeks, their hair teased higher than the Tower of Babel; shuffling housewives haunted by the ghosts of regret; pock-cheeked teenagers in their Walmart vests, pushing a mop over mysterious spills. Fluorescent lights buzzed and snapped above. Somewhere, a baby wailed.

We just may have started a volcano!” “Is that good?” Coyote laughed wildly. “I don’t know! But no one’s ever done it before, so it has that at least to recommend it.

Shh, we are not supposed to talk about the strange book that provoke all Libraries in the world to be burned.

How would I not know about it, that strange book is something people are prohibited to talk about because of the government's old persecution." "It is said that once you read it, depending on who you are. Some, if not all your beliefs might change." Rey hinted at his fear by saying, "That sounds scary!

What would you be willing to sacrifice to have a loved one back for a minute, a day, or a lifetime?" After my son Alex was killed by a drunk driver, I had a dream in which I was asked this question. Once I started thinking about it, I realized I would give up everything, and it later evolved into a science fiction book. I modeled the main character after my son. Alex's mannerisms and attitude became the basis for Xavier's character development. Xavier is a clone who does not know he is a clone nor who is controlling his fate. With his friends' help, he must uncover the people behind the conspiracy to create a shadow government and locate the others known as the Zodiac Thirteen.

Is success happiness?" "What else could it be?

Life under coercion can never compare to liberty in death.

At what point do stars collapse?

Humans are only ever one generation away from forgetting their past. Stories die on muted mouths. Pages rot and burn. Computers delete their cache. It takes effort to pass on knowledge. It takes zero effort to forget.

Days in the sun, such harmless fun, they remind my heart of you. But you crumbled away, now alone I will play, my heart crumbled away with you too. Bundles of flowers, a bouquet towers, they remind my heart of you. But your soul flew away, how I wish it could stay, my heart flew away with you too. Rows of stones, such beautiful bones, they remind my heart of you. But you rotted away, at the end of the day, my heart rots away for you too.

Give up what you call freedom, your sacrifice could change the world.

Complete. What an awful word for an infected people, that final, animal stage that was the future of all of them. Chels swallowed, unsure what to say. “That’s…sad. I didn’t even know he was infected.” Semesz whispered, “He was just infected yesterday. We saw him last night, and he already had mouse whiskers and a tail.

Well, as I see it, the only way to win is to play the game and beat everyone at it. And I mean, who’s to say you can’t make your own rules?” I say. “Spoken like a true outlaw,” Nicholas retorts. I smirk, a little guiltily. “I suppose. Thank goodness you went along with it. Anyone else would have refused to register me or left me to Master Douglas.” Shivers go up my spine. “Partners in crime.” I laugh at first, but then think about it. “That’s kind of sad.” “Or exciting.” He stares at me for a moment. “Well, speaking as your registrar, you need to get some rest.” “Are you ever going to let me have any fun?” I ask. “Not until the sun stops shining.” “Well, technically it goes down every night…” I say. “Not in this country.

he contrasts two pivotal works of dystopian fiction: George Orwell’s 1984 and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. In Orwell’s vision, he notes, we are crushed by a merciless oppression imposed by others, whereas in Huxley’s vision, we are seduced, sedated, and satiated. We enslave ourselves. “What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much information that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. “Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared that the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared that we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared that we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. “In 1984, Orwell added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. “In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we hate will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us. . . .” Orwell,

History is of those who have struggled to be free and those who have struggled to control them.

Because consciousness is ultimately a matter of faith,” James said,

I, Roman Irvine, am in love with April McIntyre. I love her, even though she’s moody, spoiled, and slightly high maintenance. I love her, even though she refuses to acknowledge how kind-hearted and selfless than she is. I love her, and she’s the only girl that I could ever want in my life.

Reality shows were cheaper than decent drama, and money meant more than legacy, so crap kept piling on top of crap until 1,000 channels were broadcasting little but stink.

I was a new person. A new Aurora. I was Aurora of Itchikan City-State.

The meek don’t inherit shit. Earth belongs to the wolves.

Benson had already forgotten the samples he had analyzed when an unfortunate explosion of the air purification system burned him beyond recognition. The investigation concluded that it was an accident. The purification system was antiquated; colonists had complained about it for the last twenty years and credits had consistently been refused. It was a sad event. It was forgotten in a week. A new air purification system was installed.

Who determines the illegality of books—of anything for that matter? Who says information and history is prohibited? The Government, and why? All documents are conspiring documents in their eyes. Audio disturbs the peace. Pictures disturb the minds and hearts of their people. Compound those subjective terms with words like “propaganda” and “conspiracy” and you have an organization like the Nine and their Oligarchy whose sole purpose and drive in life is the accumulation of power and control.

Thousand Leagues Under the Sea out like a sword. “What are you going to do?” The Magister turned to her. “First, as I promised, I’ll free all fictional creatures I can find. I’ve explained the way things work to my friends, here. And they’d like to speak to their creators, much as I’d still like to.” He held out a hand. “Give me Jonathan Porterhouse, and no harm shall come to you.” Bethany swallowed hard. “What for?” “He will accompany any and all other writers into a fictional world, where they will be free to live or die as they can.” He spread his hands. “It is the only way to ensure an end to their power, and seems the fairest way to imprison them. After all, it is no more than they have done to us.” Bethany’s eyes went wide. “You can’t just send everyone into books! Do you have any idea what would happen?” “Do you know what happened to me?” the Magister roared. “Fighting a war for the freedom of my people, only to find none of it is real? Let the writers of this world decide if their dystopian futures, their dangerous magic, their monsters and stories of terror are so entertaining once it’s their own life or death they’re living out!” Her legs shaking, Bethany took a step forward. “I’m not going to let you do this,” she said quietly. “I can’t.” “Bethany, don’t,” Kiel whispered to her, but she shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do that I can’t undo,” she told the Magister. “So go ahead. Steal my power some more. I’ll just find a way to put everything back where it belongs, and will keep at it as long as I live.” “I understand,” the Magister said. “Then I suppose you leave me with no other option.” “NO!” Kiel shouted, but it was too late. The Magister gestured, and Bethany immediately crumpled to the ground, unmoving. CHAPTER 30 What’s the problem?” Charm said, waving her robotic hand for Owen to hurry up. “We don’t have much more time!” “Give me a minute,” Owen told her, trying not to look at the skeleton sitting on the computer-circuit throne. Kiel had mentioned wanting to bring his parents back to life using magic (before he found out he was a clone of Dr. Verity, of course), but the Magister had always forbidden it, saying that such dark magic led to horrible results.

As a writer, it isn't the starting of a new book that's the daunting bit. It's the keeping going that you must do... day by day, week after week in order to finish. Once you understand that, the words fall and the pages fill.

The vast population of the world have slipped into a coma of laziness.

They insist on subscribers following the rules, but they have no issue breaking them for what they justify as the greater good. The ‘Proclamation of Distrust’ is designed to make everyone feel that any actions they take are necessary.” “What

No one should hold power without oversight.

Thinking on behalf of subscribers was one of the additional benefits of membership. A function that began as an optional extra gradually, and almost unnoticeably, became mandatory.

By the twenty-forties governments were no more than proxy management teams for a new global power and voting became just another decision that was taken on people’s behalf.

The figures were used to prove the system worked and to subdue potential disquiet.

When all people can think about is survival, and when they are thankful for the slightest handout, it’s hard to convince them that their saviors are the ones who caused their plight.

Surely everyone has a story?’ I asked. ‘Like how they say everyone has a book in them?’ He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose before replying. ‘Not everyone does have a book in them. Some people don’t even have a Post-it note.’ ‘It’s just something people say,’ I sniffed, wiping greasy fingers on my heavy napkin and feeling guilty about the greasy finger marks. ‘You really don’t think it’s true?’ ‘You do?’ Nick asked. ‘Take you, for example. According to you, you don’t have a favourite book, a favourite band, a favourite movie. What story would you write?’ ‘For all you know, I am a fantastic writer,’ I said, starting to get a bit angry again. Fueled by the overconfidence of far too much food, I slapped the table. It hurt. ‘How do you know I’m not writing an amazing novel about a dystopian society where a reanimated Henry VIII falls in love with a squirrel?’ ‘Well, look at you and your completely insane imagination.

Did you know,” their teacher explained the year before, “that paper books are out-of-date the moment they’re printed?” The beginning-of-year welcome talk. All of them sitting criss-cross applesauce at her feet. “That’s how fast the world changes. And our understanding of it, too.” She snapped her fingers. We want to make sure you have the most current information. This way we can be sure nothing you use is outdated or inaccurate. You’ll find everything you need right here online.

Her heart still pulsated at cheesy vampire romances and teen dystopian adventures. She was partial to a good biography, particularly by ageing but still glamorous film stars, though never ones by reality TV stars or footballers. Her back chilled when she turned the pages of thrillers with spiky orange capital letters and she brushed away tears after reading misery memoirs. She couldn't understand library-goers who turned their noses up at commercial books, announcing that they only enjoyed literary reads. To her, authors should write what they wanted and readers had their pick of thousands of books to enjoy.

with the

She stood on the landing inside the door to Stony’s Bar and Grill, simple but perfect in white blouse and blue denim, looking like everything the bar wasn’t. Elegant. Refined. Graceful, even standing still. Definitely Elite. And, barely concealed beneath the surface, desperate. Please let her be lost, Joe thought.

I want to scream. I want to fling myself down and beat my hands against the ground. This isn’t how things were supposed to be. This isn’t how this story was supposed to end. It feels like a lifetime ago that my family and I embarked on our simulated mission. I wish I'd known what would happen next. I wish I could go back in time and grab my family and run far away ... all the way to the moon. But, of course, that's impossible. And now it's too late to run.

Our teacher, Professor Adam, doesn’t know we’re just going through the motions. He doesn’t understand that nothing he’s saying really matters anymore. This classroom, and everything that happens inside it, once seemed big and important. Now it all seems silly and insignificant. I try to pay attention, because we’re supposed to, but my mind can’t focus on the present. It’s too busy thinking about the future. A future where every life in this room is in jeopardy.

We now live in an information deluge only dystopian novelists could have foreseen. In the introduction to his landmark book, Amusing Ourselves to Death, Neil Postman contrasted two very different cultural warnings, those of George Orwell’s 1984 and of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Orwell argued that books would disappear by censorship; Huxley thought books would be marginalized by data torrent. Postman summarizes the contrast well. “Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much information that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared that the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance.”2 Huxley seems to have won.

You want to know how long it takes for the fabric of society to break down? I’ll tell you. The same time it takes to kick a door down. I once read a book about Japanese veterans remembering the darkness of the Second World War. They seemed like old men with happy families at peace with the world, but they could still recall the hunger that drove them to kill and eat Chinese women. More often than not they would rape them first. Ask anyone who has been in a crowd that becomes too strong, where bodies begin to crush you. Is your first instinct to lift others up, or to trample them down? That beast inside you, the one you think is tethered tightly to the post, the

The city was in ruins. It had merely been months since its fall and it already looked like a century year old abandoned settlement. Steel skyscrapers and buildings once covered in suspended organic gardens and fountains were riddled with black poisonous vines. Fountains which once harboured blue waters were soiled with rotten bodies, bones and toxic moss. The streets were a cemetery of vehicles and skeletons, a graveyard of metal and bone.

He hated himself for taking such a useless risk, for such a desire to save her. It was entirely unlike him. There was no reason to jeopardise the integrity of the mission for one soldier. No reason for Sterling to treat Elizabeth differently than any other. Yet there he was, clawing through the smoke to get to her.

She haunted his soul in ways he couldn’t control or explain. She was a poison with no antidote. Sterling had never let impulses overcloud responsibility, and now he had no idea how to handle the inexplicable boiling wrath he felt while seeing her powerless and at the mercy of others. It made him want to burn the whole room and everyone inside. It made feral to see her cuffed to that table - the one he’d purposely stuck her on - dangled like bait for people like Zimmermann to bite on.

A tidal wave crashed against the shores of Sterling’s soul, permanently shifting something inside him. It was as if his body felt too small, too crowded for his own mind, as if something else was there, another heat he couldn’t quite discern amidst his own. “Catena binds you. Through this rune, you both shall adhere to the order of this court, as neither of you will be able to stay away from the other. The thinner and longer the chain gets, the worse the suffering. The closer you are, the less you’ll feel its effects. This way, Elizabeth cannot escape your control. If she proves too dangerous, she will have no way to run from your punishment, and you’ll keep your oath to neutralise her.” Sterling didn’t mean for things to go this far. He merely wanted to be responsible for Elizabeth and keep her under his girdle, not actually be alchemically bound to being near her at all times. Indignation was painted on Elizabeth’s face in colours he yet hadn’t seen on her, washing the feeble traces of fear away. She was furious. But so was he. Annoyed with himself for not thinking alchemy would have been used… outraged for liking it.

That’s why I want to study Russian literature. I want to understand what it is we’re scared of. At a deep level.

She decimated humanity for her own chance at living it.

Lies leave a stain which even the truth has trouble washing out.

The interstices of time are highly complex. Time is mutable, and one small step for a man sets mankind on a radically different path. "There are billions of paths, twists and fork-turns. Some lead to triumph, and others to doom. The one we have trodden has risked our annihilation as a species.

Tears pooled in his eyes. Light or dark, awake and asleep, the scenes were the same. Busy streets that by dawn would be charred rubble and molten ash. Men with briefcases, waving goodbye to their wives, who would never return. Mothers kissing the foreheads of sleeping children who would never waken. For so it would always be in a universe where the Megaton was Lord.

Every time someone got wounded, bombed or hurt in the news, she could not stop the pervasive sense of guilt that she ought to have stopped it. It haunted her morning, noon and night. For what purpose had she been given this gift? And did anyone else share it? What if it wasn’t a gift, but a curse?

My First Book, filled in a Surreal Box of Delightful Dark Dystopian Modern Poems.

When science has uttered her voice, let babblers hold their peace.

The legacy of bad government decisions doesn’t end when the policy stops. The effect lingers on longer than the supposed economic benefit.

I don't want you to just save Aetherium, Jonathan. I want you to make it worth saving.

It was beautiful. A marvel. A monument to ambition long since forgotten. And he was going to burn it all down.

They wore full-coverage raid suits, thick-filtered helmets, their gloves embellished with a ridge of claw-like, upturned hooks along each knuckle, all emblazoned with the logo of Atlas—Greek Titan of Endurance—shouldering the world in a neon blue silhouette.

GO TO THE PAIN LOVERS is dystopian in a very modern, observational way. Peter (Magliocco) is a long time Vegas resident … he knows where to look in the underbelly of modern life for the dark side of humanity. Anyone familiar with his novels and poetry books knows he puts this knowledge to profitable use as he does here.

Big Brother is very much watching everyone in More’s imagined world: there’s no personal liberty, that great human right that is placed under threat in virtually every modern dystopian novel from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. Yet More doesn’t seem to think this presents a problem.

Men in black scrambled out from the van like commandos, readying their weapons, and pointing them back towards the van’s open door. Even as that was happening, more men were bursting out of the other black cars in the caravan. All together, the Keepers were flashing more firepower than a Columbian cartel at a festival.

Nobody dared touch it. They all knew that Snoopy’s carcass wasn’t a dead body, as much as it was a monument. A monument to the legend of Alastar Daivi.

Sophia breathed. Yes, she would have control, and say as little as she could. But what if she saw things going wrong, subtle things. Small things. Things that were real but would sound insignificant if she were to speak them out loud. Sophia breathed again. All she had to do was stay quiet.

the biggest risk we face as a civilization,” comparing the creation of it to “summoning the demon.” Intellectual celebrities such as the late cosmologist Stephen Hawking have joined Musk in the dystopian camp, many of them inspired by the work of Oxford philosopher Nick Bostrom, whose 2014 book Superintelligence captured the imagination of many futurists.

The Judge transported Darius and I to that chamber

Imara shrugged. “A hundred years ago, no one thought they had hilas. People thought they were just strangely good at mundane things.

Imara smoothed the hair on the back of her neck then flounced the curls on top of her head. She tugged at the strands of hair on the back of her neck while she stared at the jar of coconut oil on her desk. With a nod to herself, she threw the coconut oil into the backpack. It took up valuable space, but she’d never be able to tame her curls without it.

Look, I don’t want you to do this because of what I said. I need you to know that I care.” I would have laughed at the irony of my next words if they didn’t sting as I spoke them. “But not enough, Collin. Not enough.

Deep State”—the Invisible Government The terms “invisible government,” “shadow government,” and more recently “Deep State” have been used to describe the secretive, occult, and international banking and business families that control financial institutions, both political parties, and cabals within various intelligence agencies in Britain and America. Edward L. Bernays, a pioneer in the field of propaganda, spoke of the “invisible government” as the “true ruling power of our country.” He said, “We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of.”40 “The political process of the United States of America [is] under attack by intelligence agencies and individuals in those agencies,” U.S. representative Dennis Kucinich (D-OH) said. “You have politicization of agencies that is resulting in leaks from anonymous, unknown people, and the intention is to take down a president. Now, this is very dangerous to America. It’s a threat to our republic; it constitutes a clear and present danger to our way of life.”41 Emotional Contagion One of the reasons why the Deep State has been able to hide in plain sight is because it controls the mainstream media in the United States. Despite the growing evidence of its existence, the media largely denies this reality. David Remnick, editor of the New Yorker, wrote an article titled, “There Is No Deep State: The Problem in Washington Is Not a Conspiracy Against the President; It’s the President Himself.” Like the “thought police” in George Orwell’s 1984—a classic book about a dystopian future where critical thought is suppressed by a totalitarian regime—the Deep State uses the media to program the population according to the dictates of Big Brother and tell people in effect that “WAR IS PEACE,” “FREEDOM IS SLAVERY,” and “IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.”42 Many of the largest social media platforms are used by the Deep State for surveillance and to influence the masses. Many people think social media is just for personal fun and networking with friends, family, and business associates. However, this innocent activity enables powerful computer networks to create detailed profiles of people’s political and moral beliefs and buying habits, as well as a deep analysis of their psychological conflicts, emotional problems, and pretty much anything Big Brother wants to know. Most people don’t understand the true extent of surveillance now occurring. For at least a decade, digital flat-screen televisions, cell phones and smartphones, laptop computers, and most devices with a camera and microphone could be used to spy on you without your knowledge. Even if the power on one of these devices was off, you could still be recorded by supercomputers collecting “mega-data” for potential use later. These technologies are also used to transform

peroration

The only thing settling their resolve is a corpse's confirmation that the dirty work is done. Paycheck earned. Weekend reserved. Bang the wife. Beat the kids. Beers on me... - Agent Cooper (Solo Agers: Book 1: Kakistocracy)

Death,” Madders says in his professor voice, “is not as glamorous as the brochure makes it out to be.

With tears blurring his vision and misery clogging his throat, the boy ran like he’d never run before. Only stopping to look back at his house one last time, letting his tears freely pour from that moment onward.

An exhilarating, realistic political tale with shades of SF. Devastated nations maneuver to regain power and fight over advanced technology in Kanati’s future-set thriller.” - Kirkus Reviews “The author’s knowledge of Geopolitics … is evident throughout this excellent and entertaining novel. The Savagery of Man … combines elements of compelling espionage thriller and dystopian fiction in its depiction of a world on fire. The action and drama are omnipresent and the author excels at throwing a curveball or two on the road to a rewarding climax.” - The Book Review Directory

Sci-Fi Ultimate Collection:

This too shall pass… calm my heart, Lord.  You are my Refuge, my Stronghold, the Rock in whom I trust… Our Father…

Just sharing a line from my dystopian sci-fi novel Twinfall — curious what kind of books this reminds you of?

Nah,” Simms said. “Doesn’t matter. For all we know, we’re a character in a book. Or a TV show. Or an alien betting pool.

You want to erase choice.

Pyro. Shadow. Mother. Survivor.

The system has been reset. By flame. By memory. By name.

We didn't know what we were anymore. Players? Weapons? Ghosts? But we remembered who we were. And that's what saved us.

I heard your voice. That's what saved me.

DNA key?" she whispered. "I am the damn key.