Emory Quotes

[M]emory is time folding back on itself. To remember is to disengage from the present.

I love when they argue,” Emory said into his soup. “Keeps my weak little heart beating.

But you’re going to be fucking mine someday,” he growled. “Come hell or high water, Emory Scott. You’re my woman, and you’re going to come home to me every day and sit at my table and warm my fucking bed.” He kissed me. “And you’re going to give me a Will Grayson IV. Mark my words.

Abuse can feel like love. Why?' Starving people will eat anything.

Because he’s the one pure, beautiful thing untainted by ugliness,” he repeated his same words from the shower. “And we love him for it.

Some days there won't be a song in your heart. Sing anyway.

You and me against the world,” he whispered, picking up speed and going harder. “Always,” I said.

I’d loved Emory since the moment I laid eyes on her when I was fourteen.

I made you beautiful,” Emory said again, again. “You keep saying that,” Ama answered. “But I did not ask for your beauty. I made beauty all on my own. I did not need you then.

We would drive to Canada, where it would probably be legal for us to get married- it was Canada where they let people do whatever they wanted because it was too cold to bother stopping them.

Alex was like Damon. They loved me. They indulged my dark side. They were too forgiving and too enabling. They kept me from being lonely, but Emory taught me that not everything I wanted was going to come easy. That there were things I was going to have to fight for and there was pain in the world that my shallow lifestyle in high school kept me ignorant of. She made me feel like a man.

Are you scared, Emory?” he asked her. Her voice remained as still and calm as her body. “I’m the eye of the storm. You?

Dear Aunt Patty, Thank you for coming to be part of what definitely ranks in the top five worst days of my life. While your generosity is appreciated, I am returning this gift, as forced bachelorhood necessitates total abstinence from bamboo placemats and matching napkin rings in my daily life. Sincerely, Emory Too much?

I allow manipulation to find out where my enemy wants me to go. Then I use my mind to break the trap and punish the perpetrators.

I build with you now,” he whispered to me, the heat of his mouth on my lips. “We make Thunder Bay together, Em. I love you.” I love you. I closed my eyes, my face cracking and my eyes filling with tears.

It’s midnight!” he says frantically, slapping at the door. “Call her. Call your roommate!” “Oh, shit,” I mutter. I retrieve my phone and begin to dial Emory’s number. “I was about to dial 911,” Emory says as she answers. “Sorry, we almost forgot.” “Do you need to use the code word?” she asks. “No, I’m fine. I already locked him out, so I don’t think he’s going to murder me tonight.” Emory sighs. “That sucks,” she says. “Not that he didn’t murder you,” she adds quickly. “I just really wanted to hear you say the code word.” I laugh. “I’m sorry my safety disappoints you.” She sighs again. “Please? Just say it for me one time.” “Fine,” I say with a groan. “Meat dress. Are you happy?” There’s a quiet pause before she says, “I don’t know. Now I’m not sure if you said the code word just to make me happy or if you’re really in danger.

Blood, sweat, and tea, sister! That's what it takes to achieve all great and terrible things.

At last Emory turned to leave, well pleased, and then a thought flashed through Ama’s mind, a realization that chilled her even more deeply than the rain – This is how he likes me best… when I am in need of rescue.

In the name of the King, halt!" "In the name of your duty, catch me!

My unmatched perspicacity, coupled with sheer indefatigability, makes me a feared opponent in any realm of human endeavor.

Immediately after graduating, with honors, from Emory University in the summer of 1990, McCandless dropped out of sight. He changed his name, gave the entire balance of a twenty-four-thousand-dollar savings account to charity, abandoned his car and most of his possessions, burned all the cash in his wallet. And then he invented a new life for himself, taking up residence at the ragged margin of our society, wandering across North America in search of raw, transcendent experience.

I began with absolutely nothing, and I'm so good, I've still got most of it left!

I’d loved Emory since the moment I laid eyes on her when I was fourteen. “From that moment on, it seemed I was always aware of her, and everything I did, I did it with it in mind that she was watching.

(M)emories are often amalgams of truth and fiction, sewn together in our heads by our subconscious to support our personal beliefs about the world.

I think love and hate intertwine far too much for humanity's own good, yet we choose to compare them like vinegar and water.

The first time I came to Wonderland I was trying to find my sister. The second time, I tried to find myself. This time, I’m going to find Remus. I’m going to get my Hatter.

The Emory University neuroscientists James Rilling and Gregory Berns found that helping people in need stimulates the same brain region as winning a prize or eating a delicious meal. We also know that depressed (and formerly depressed) people are more likely to see the world from others’ points of view and to experience compassion; conversely, high-empathy people are more likely than others to enjoy sad music.

Stupidity is singing the rebel anthem and hoping you won't get caught, Tucker," he had chided her. "But bravery is singing it proudly, hoping the king will come to fight you personally.

Time is drowning, Hearts are burning, Heads are rolling, Nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock; Creatures talking, Weak are rising, White Queen’s nearing, Nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock; Cards are bleeding, Crowns are sweating, Tea is spilling, Nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock; Red Queen, here’s your warning, Wonderland’s raging, Alice is coming, Highness, time is drowning, And nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…

Love isn't possession. I don't need to have him to love him.

Sometimes all you need is to be remembered, especially in a place where it’s so easy to forget.

At the end of all things, there was no song; So the legends lived on, until all that remained were the stories she must tell.

There is a reason why morning follows night, hjälte. After times of great darkness, we must take time to mourn all we have lost and all who were lost, even as hope rises with the sun.

Stars are echoes of the past. It's important to look to them for guidance, but as long as people reach for them, they never realize the beauty and potential awaiting just in front of them.

Don't you own a pair of riding pants?" Tucker shook her head, wondering how fast horses were. Lorelei shot her sister a harsh glare. "Why does it seem as if she's never ridden a day in her life?" Vivian crossed her arms. "Because I brought her to a manor, not a stable.

Nothing is ever a surprise,” he said. “Always act as if you knew it was coming the whole time. Pretend it was part of the plan. You move with the storm, Emory. Calm, quiet, patient, and then… Then you happen to him.

A monster, some called her. But in the shadows, only said in whispers, she was an angel in red.

The art of flexibility?" "A most valuable talent," Napier grinned. "Most valuable indeed." Tucker turned back around in the saddle, having the good sense not to ask him what he meant.

Come hell or high water, Emory Scott. You’re my woman, and you’re going to come home to me every day and sit at my table and warm my fucking bed.” He kissed me. “And you’re going to give me a Will Grayson IV. Mark my words.

You could always count on serendipity to keep things interesting.

Tucker met his eyes and set her hand in his. "I've never met a gypsy before." "I'm honoured to be your first." He kissed her knuckles coyly.

Neither of us could stay within an enclosed cage for long.

Grandfather Razini stole it from a port in Newsensefords a couple of years ago." She raised her brows."How do you steal a boat?" "I have no idea, but I'd love to try it some time.

I haven't decided yet if you're witty or clueless." "All of the above," Napier answered. "Unless charming is an option, of course.

Napier grinned. "I'm flattered." "I'm sure you are," Colt said. "You've always been optimistic in your interpretations.

I’m going to fix everything.” “Ah, but darling, you don’t have to.

Its my son again. Ja its Emory, God be thanked.

Stories help us remember what we never want to forget.

I will always believe in you. And that’s more powerful than memory.

This Mrs. Emory remembers she phoned the Horton house to talk to her friend about a class reunion.

When your worst demon is yourself, no one can use it against you.

But I know what it’s like when everyone seems to look at you as if you’re a strange creature impossible to understand, so much so you begin to wonder if they’re right.

She finally understood why the monsters in the Forest always seemed to smile. Beasts only bared their teeth as a warning before they attack.

What’s bleach?’ asks Clara. ‘No idea,’ replies Emory, passing her the chart. ‘It was probably delicious, though.

What would any of us be without choice? But, remember this, fear and faith are two brothers forever entwined, and there’s no telling what outcome they will produce.

though Baz doubted he would ever be fearless like Kai or Romie, he knew Emory had made him want to fear less.

Leave the bragging for the idiots, she had decided. And leave the idiots for the scaffold.

A lioness doesn't explain herself to a mouse.

You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if it was staring you in the face.

I suppose that there's quite a difference between growing old and growing up.

Some days there won't be a song in your heart, sing anyway.

One day is all it takes to lose someone forever.

Everyone’s important. Trouble is trying to figure out why.

We’re a little messed up, aren’t we?" “I’ve met worse." “I know. I almost feel bad for Alice—you know, since she’s supposed to be the crazy one.

Feuds are weeds... Once it’s grown roots, it’s harder to dig up; and it’s far easier to spread.

It might take a while, and we probably won’t recognize it when it comes, but I do believe – I have to believe – that someday we’ll get our happy endings.

Ghosts don’t stay buried when they’re laced in gold.

You don’t need another human being to make your life complete; but let’s be honest - having your wounds kissed by someone who doesn’t see them as disasters in your soul, but cracks to put their love into is one of the most calming things in this world.

Will called us. “Alex,” he said, standing back and watching them. “Emory.” Alex immediately went to his side, but I stayed rooted. A fire lit behind his eyes. “I will raise hell and reduce this house to ash if you act like this is a choice for one more second!” he bellowed at me and then pointed to his side. “Now!” I jumped, tingles throbbing between my legs, and I clenched my teeth, walking over to him.

At the Emory University School of Medicine in 2013, researchers conducted an experiment with male mice. They exposed the mice to the smell of cherry blossoms, then gave them an electric shock. The mice came to associate the smell of cherry blossoms with danger. Eventually, the mice were able to identify the smell at trace concentrations. The smell receptors in their brain enlarged—they changed to identify the scent. Researchers even identified changes in the mice’s sperm. Then, after the mice had offspring, the researchers exposed this next generation of mice to the cherry blossom scent. Despite the fact that these mice had never smelled cherry blossoms before and had never been shocked, they still shuddered and jumped when it wafted into their cages. This generation of mice had inherited their parents’ trauma.

The idea of saying goodbye was unbearable. Emory had walked back into his life, carved herself a place in it despite all his trepidations, and though Baz doubted he would ever feel fearless like Kai or Romie, he knew Emory had made him want to fear less. This girl who’d laughed in fields of gold, who’d made sunflowers bloom, who’d looked up at the stars with him and thought they were lost should trying to find their way home.

One should not make a pet out of a wild beast,” Ama said. She mounted Emory, knelt over him, and, ignoring his batting, bloodied hands, she reached into his chest, pulled open his mortal wound, and extracted his still-beating heart. It pulsed in her palm, and Ama bit into it like a ripe plum.

Napier surfaced next to her and propped his arms on the ledge. "I meant to ask - can you swim?" "No," she said through chattering teeth, "Actually I can't." He cocked his head to the side and looked perplexed. "Your lips are blue." "I'm cold," she said curtly. "Want me to warm you up?" he asked, grinning. "I'd rather be cold," she snapped, hating him more by the second.

She's the princess, Colt!" Addie grabbed his arm. "She's just like we imagined, isn't she?" Napier hopped down to inspect the wound. "You imagined the princess with a hole in her leg? How sick." "Get away from her," Colt scoffed. "You're halfway under Tucker's skirts." "I'm a doctor!" "No, you're not!

The Forest is dark, dearie, The Forest is dark; The moment you think that you’re lost in the woods, then you are. Do not lose your way, dearie, Do not lose your way; The monsters are lurking not far from the path should you stray. Things aren’t what they seem, dearie, Things aren’t what they seem; Kind grins are bared teeth; Please don’t answer the calls from the trees. Do not pay them heed, dearie, Do not pay them heed; Hear footsteps behind you, beware but don’t fret, they’re just checking. The air is alive, dearie, The air is alive; To help and to hinder, but it’s how some learned to survive. These woods are too old, dearie, These woods are too old; Watch for crimson wraiths, keep your strength and wits close should you go. Deep in the Forest.

Touching a penis? Yes. That's in the contract." "I didn't mean-" "You did. That's what all the straight guys are worried about. First, do they have to touch a penis? Second, any butt stuff? Because they'd really prefer to not do the butt stuff.

A GIRL WAS BORN FROM DARKNESS, AND SHONE JUST LIKE THE SUN. SHE ROSE TO FOOL THE HEARTLESS, BUT GAVE HER LOVE TO NONE. SO THIS GIRL DID DIED IN GLORY, ON THE FIELD WHERE SHE WAS SLAIN, AND SHE'LL NEVER HEAR HER STORY AND WE'LL NEVER KNOW HER NAME.

I was really tired of men assuming I didn't know anything.

This princess has no need of a prince.

But don’t we all deserve a chance before we’re judged?

You speak without regard to your debt." "You speak with jealousy," Lorelei said. "I recommend you stop speaking at all now.

I want my sons to learn to make something, not just destroy.

Sometimes the good memories are just as painful as the bad ones.

Miranda wants Andre to rim you. Is that okay?" "What is...is that?" Alex thinks about basketball. He played soccer in high school and he's kind of embarrassed about how little he knows the sport. Rim. Rim shot. Lay up? Free throw? "It's where he licks your asshole...But most guys get into it after a little while...It feels nice, I promise." So. Not basketball.

She laid her head on my chest, holding me close. I loved it when she did that. All the time I spent thinking she didn’t need me, and now I knew she did. She didn’t hold me. She held on to me.

I reached in and pulled out a black one to match his white one instead, both with a thick red stripe down the left side. “I like this one,” I said. He smiled and pulled his out, closing the back hatch and locking the car.

When I was in the sixth grade, I asked my mother if she thought I was pretty and she put down her phone and took off her glasses and said, “That’s not something you need to worry about, Emory. There are far more important things to be worried about than looks.” I still think about how she just didn’t say Yes. How it shouldn’t be hard for a mom to just say Yes, you’re pretty. They tell us plenty of critical things, how hard is it to throw some positives in there?

They will base that judgment on whatever the status of your escort and manners are." "Escort and manners?" Tucker scoffed. "What good are manners? 'I'm sorry sir, for stealing your change.'" Vivian jerked the girl's arm sharply. "No more of that, Tucker. The stealing or the attitude.

Why do some people—so many—need to control others, tell them what to do, use them if they can, destroy those who won’t be used?” She sensed that the question wasn’t rhetorical, that he cared what she would say. “Why Hitler, why Stalin, why Emory Wayne Udell? I don’t know. Demonic influence or just miswired brains? In the end, does it matter which? Maybe what matters is that some of us aren’t broken by it all, that we can take it to the Emory Udells and the William Overtons and the Bertold Shennecks, take it to them and stop them before they can do everything they dream about.” North

And a message from Will. I opened it.  Morning! Smile. Or don’t. It’s completely your choice. Don’t let a guy tell you you’re prettier when you do. You don’t need to be pretty for anyone. Your value does not rely on my opinion. Damn the patriarchy.  I laughed, shaking hard and my eyes watering. What a moron.

In the late '80s and early '90s, the media used a few small studies of babies born of cocaine-addicted mothers to convince America that thousands of children were permanently damaged... It isn't true. It turns out there is no proof that crack babies do worse than anyone else. In fact, they do better, on average, than children born of alcoholic mothers... It wasn't until several years later that the myth started to unravel. Emory University psychologist Claire Coles had her graduate students spend hours observing 'crack babies' and normal babies. Her students did not see what Chasnoff had seen. In fact, they were unable to tell which children had been exposed to cocaine.

Thea." Nick took my chin in his hand and made me look at him. "You may be beautiful, but I'm not dying for you today.

Still, he's Emory. He doesn't have to walk her home, especially considering how snitty she was to him. He didn't have to come in and stop her cruelty to Fay, or watch over her as he has evidently been continuing to do, drawing those pictures on the Reeses' sidewalk. She knew the pictures were for her and her children. She and Emory did not always spell things out, but she knew, when he drew pictures, what they meant.

Are you two dating now?” “Yup,” I say with finality. “We’re a couple, so I’m sorry to inform you but your title of cutest couple is about to be stolen.” “You think we’re cuter than Milly and Carson?” Emory asks. “Of course. No competition. Milly is gorgeous but Carson is bringing down the team. I surpass them without even having a girlfriend, hell, if I were coupled up with my nightstand, I’d be a better couple.” “I’ll be sure to spread the news on to Carson.” Knox laughs to himself. “Not the best idea, you know how sensitive he is.” “I think you’re referring to yourself,” Knox points out. I chuckle. “True, I’m very sensitive and if he finds out and comes after my ass, I won’t recover easily, which means I’ll be over here at your place, begging you to nurse me back to health so my lady friend doesn’t have to see me in such a weak state.” Knox scratches the side of his jaw and says, “Have I ever told you how much I really don’t like you?” “Almost every day.” I wink at him.

He chuckled and dropped me to my feet. I blinked against the rain, watching him dig into his pocket for something. He pulled it out, pinching a vintage Victorian ring with a teardrop diamond and a platinum band encrusted with more jewels, encased by an ornate setting above and below. It was almost like three rings in one, and nearly an inch in width. “It’s very old,” Will said, slipping it onto my finger, his hand shaking. “It’s your family’s?” “It’s yours now.” He met my eyes. “It’s been yours for nearly ten years.

Just a boy, Just a child, In a place where no one grows up; Young bodies with old minds, Dream and nightmare reign side by side, In a place where no one grows up; A time when darkness shrouded the sun, Vengeance birthed from sea and blood, Many had fallen in the war never won, In a place where no one grows up; When the boy’s heart grieved he became more of a man, When the pirate’s heart hardened with the loss of his hand, One dreadful night everything changed and feuds began, Now the ghosts from their mistakes are tied to this land, In a place where no one grows up; Just a boy, just a child, in appearance it’s true, But children can carry terrible burdens too, For sometimes stopping time doesn’t mean forever youth, Living, forgetting, loving, seething, bearing an all too heavy truth; Just a boy, Just a child, In a place where no one grows up.

She knows she should feel excited about her acceptance to Emory and the promise of spring break. She should feel infinite and hopeful, like the growing earth around her. Like the sunlight, which stretches longer each day, asking for one more minute, one more oak tree to shimmer on. Like the late March mornings, which arrive carrying a gentle heat, rocking it back and forth over the pavement in the parking lot, letting it crawl forth over the grass and the tree roots, nurturing it while it is still nascent and tender, before it turns into swollen summer. But while the whole earth prepares for spring, Hannah feels a great anxiety in her heart, for something dangerous has grown in her, something she never planted or even wanted to plant. It’s there. She knows it’s there. If she’s truthful with herself, she’s probably known it all along. But now, as the days grow longer and the Garden District grows greener, she can actually see it. It has sprung up at last, and it refuses to be unseen. She tells herself it’s passing. It’s temporary. It’s intensified only because she’s a senior and all of her emotions are heightened. It’s innocent. It’s typical for a girl her age. It’s no more or less of a feeling than everyone else has had at 17. But deep down, deep below the topsoil of her heart, she knows it’s not. Still, she pushes it down inside of her, buries it as far as it can go, suffocates it in the space between her stomach and her heart. She tells herself that she is stronger, that she can fight it, that she has control. That no one else has to know. I can ignore it, she thinks. I can refuse to look at it. I can stomp on it every time it springs up within me. So she lies to herself that everything is normal. That she is normal. She carries herself through the end of the school week by refusing to acknowledge it. By refusing to align her heart with the growing sunlight and the nurturing heat and the flowering plants and the tall, proud trees. ‘You alright?’ Baker asks, when Hannah says goodbye to her after school on Friday. Hannah stomps, buries, suffocates, wishes for death. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’m good.

Will you marry me?” I asked, breathing hard and my heart hammering. Slowly, I climbed to my feet and turned to face him, seeing him stopped. He stood there, frozen, not turning around, but that was okay. I wasn’t sure I could do this if he looked at me. God, my mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow. “I love you,” I said, and I could see people filming us with their phones out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t care. “I’m wild crazy for you, and I’m sure I’ll kill you at some point, but… God, I love you so much, and I want you to marry me.” More tears streamed down my face as I choked out the words. “Marry me, Will Grayson.” I rushed up and hugged his back, wrapping my arms around him. “Can you marry me? Can I marry you?” I held him, my cheek resting against his back and water catching between my lips. He was going to laugh. He was probably freaked out or maybe angry I asked him instead of letting him ask me—if those were his intentions anyway. Shit… But then, he spun around, picked me up off my feet, and kissed me, pressing his lips to mine and backing me into a parked car.

Oedipa spent the next several days in and out of libraries and earnest discussions with Emory Bortz and Genghis Cohen. She feared a little for their security in view of what was happening to everyone else she knew. The day after reading Blobb's Peregrinations she, with Bortz, Grace, and the graduate students, attended Randolph Driblette's burial, listened to a younger brother's helpless, stricken eulogy, watched the mother, spectral in afternoon smog, cry, and came back at night to sit on the grave and drink Napa Valley muscatel, which Driblette in his time had put away barrels of. There was no moon, smog covered the stars, all black as a Tristero rider. Oedipa sat on the earth, ass getting cold, wondering whether, as Driblette had suggested that night from the shower, some version of herself hadn't vanished with him. Perhaps her mind would go on flexing psychic muscles that no longer existed; would be betrayed and mocked by a phantom self as the amputee is by a phantom limb. Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a ' letter, another lover. She tried to reach out, to whatever coded tenacity of protein might improbably have held on six feet below, still resisting decay-any stubborn quiescence perhaps gathering itself for some last burst, some last scramble up through earth, just-glimmering, holding together with its final strength a transient, winged shape, needing to settle at once in the warm host, or dissipate forever into the dark. If you come to me, prayed Oedipa, bring your memories of the last night. Or if you have to keep down your payload, the last five minutes-that may be enough. But so I'll know if your walk into the sea had anything to do with Tristero. If they got rid of you for the reason they got rid of Hilarius and Mucho and Metzger-maybe because they thought I no longer needed you. They were wrong. I needed you. Only bring me that memory, and you can live with me for whatever time I've got. She remembered his head, floating in the shower, saying, you could fall in love with me. But could she have saved him? She looked over at the girl who'd given her the news of his death. Had they been in love? Did she know why Driblette had put in those two extra lines that night? Had he even known why? No one could begin to trace it. A hundred hangups, permuted, combined-sex, money, illness, despair with the history of his time and place, who knew. Changing the script had no clearer motive than his suicide. There was the same whimsy to both. Perhaps-she felt briefly penetrated, as if the bright winged thing had actually made it to the sanctuary of her heart-perhaps, springing from the same slick labyrinth, adding those two lines had even, in a way never to be explained, served him as a rehearsal for his night's walk away into that vast sink of the primal blood the Pacific. She waited for the winged brightness to announce its safe arrival. But there was silence. Driblette, she called. The signal echoing down twisted miles of brain circuitry. Driblette! But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

My greetings and constant love to Emory and my grandchildren. I am well and continue to make my rounds with the news of the day and as always am well-received in the towns of which we have more than a few now as the Century grows older and the population increases so that large crowds come to hear reportage of distant places as well as those nearby. I enjoy good health as always and hope that Emory is doing well using his left hand now and look forward to an example of his handwriting. It is true what Elizabeth has said about employment for a one-armed man but that concerns manual labor only and at any rate there should be some consideration for a man who has lost a limb in the war. As soon as he is adept with his left I am sure he will consider Typesetting, Accounting, Etc. & Etc. Olympia is I am sure a steady rock to you all. Olympia’s husband, Mason, had been killed at Adairsville, during Johnston’s retreat toward Atlanta. The man was too big to be a human being and too small to be a locomotive. He had been shot out of the tower of the Bardsley mansion and when he fell three stories and struck the ground he probably made a hole big enough to bury a hog in. The Captain’s younger daughter, Olympia, was in reality a woman who affected helplessness and refinement and had never been able to pull a turnip from the garden without weeping over the poor, dear thing. She fluttered and gasped and incessantly tried to demonstrate how sensitive she was. Mason was a perfect foil and then the Yankees went and killed him. Olympia was now living with Elizabeth and Emory in the remains of their farm in New Hope Church, Georgia, and was quite likely a heavy weight. He put one hand to his forehead. My youngest daughter is in reality a bore. There was a pounding on the wall: Kep-dun! Kep-dun!