Finders Keepers Quotes

bookshops are time machines spaceships story-makers secret-keepers dragon-tamers dream-catchers fact-finders & safe places. (this book is for those who know this to be true)

Sevro." I lean forward. "Your eyes..." He leans in close. "Do you like 'em?" "Bloodydamn. Did you get Carved?" "By the best in the business. Do you like 'em?" "They're bloodydamn marvelous. Fit you like a glove." He punches his hands together. "Glad you said that. Cuz they're yours." I blanch. "What?" "They're yours." "My what?" "Your eyes!" "My eyes..." "Do you want the eyes back?" Sevro asks, suddenly worried. "I can give them back." "No!" I say. "It's just I forgot how crazy you are." "Oh." He laughs and slaps my shoulder. "Good. I thought it might be something serious. So I'm prime keeping them?" "Finders keepers," I say with a shrug.

A good novelist does not lead his characters, he follows them. A good novelist does not create events, he watches them happen and then writes down what he sees.

If she tried anything, she would be sorry. Adam was mine. She had thrown him away, thrown Jesse away—and I had snatched them up. Finders keepers.

Shit don't mean shit

Finders were keepers unless title was proven.

For readers, one of life’s most electrifying discoveries is that they are readers—not just capable of doing it (which Morris already knew), but in love with it. Hopelessly. Head over heels. The first book that does that is never forgotten, and each page seems to bring a fresh revelation, one that burns and exalts: Yes! That’s how it is! Yes! I saw that, too! And, of course, That’s what I think! That’s what I FEEL!

Ezekiel 25:17. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you." I been sayin' that shit for years. And if you ever heard it, it meant your ass. I never really questioned what it meant. I thought it was just a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherfucker before you popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin' made me think twice. Now I'm thinkin': it could mean you're the evil man. And I'm the righteous man. And Mr. .45 here, he's the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could be you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is you're the weak. And I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm tryin, Ringo. I'm tryin' real hard to be the shepherd. he became the shepherd instead of the vengeance. Jules Winnfield- Samuel L. Jackson

Books were escape. Books were freedom.

And you, CONSTANT READER. Thank God you’re still there after all these years. If you’re having fun, I am, too.

A good novelist realizes he is a secretary, not God.

These places are time machines, spaceships, story-makers, secret-keepers. They are dragon-tamers, dream-catchers, fact-finders, and safe places. They are full of infinite possibilities and tales worth taking home.

For readers, one of life’s most electrifying discoveries is that they are readers – not just capable of doing it, but in love with it. Hopelessly. Head over heels.

Finders keepers. Asshole.

If you look like you belong in a place, most people think you do.

No. I was going to say his work changed my life, but that’s not right. I don’t think a teenager has much of a life to change. I just turned eighteen last month. I guess what I mean is his work changed my heart.

For readers, one of life’s most electrifying discoveries is that they are readers—not just capable of doing it (which Morris already knew), but in love with it. Hopelessly. Head over heels.

As the twig is bent the bough is shaped, that was another old saying, and once a pretentious asshole, always a pretentious asshole.

You know what, kid? It's guys like you who give reading a bad name.

when someone says they’re going to be honest with you, they are in most cases preparing to lie faster than a horse can trot.

There's nothing I like better than a good book discussion with someone who can hold up his end of the argument.

A good novelist does not lead his characters, he follows them. A good novelist does not create events, he watches them happen and then writes down what he sees. A good novelist realizes he is a secretary, not God.

People assume any twentieth-century white male writer must be an alcoholic.

writing couldn’t really be taught, only learned.

He found me, and whether he knew it or not, I was his, in a way. You know what they say… Finders keepers.

Philosophers have debated the meaning of life for centuries, rarely coming to the same conclusion.

They say half a loaf is better than none, Jimmy, but in a world of want, even a single slice is better than none.

Finders keepers is what they say, and I wanted to be kept.

Finders keepers!" Ian shouted, scooping up the overlay and hopping onto a rock outcropping. "You cheater!" Amy was furious. No way was he going to get away with that. She climbed the rock, matching him step for step until she reached the top. There he turned to her, panting for breath. "Not bad for a Cahill," he said, grinning. "You --y-y-you--" The words caught in her throat, the way they always did. He was staring at her, his eyes dancing with laughter, making her so knotted up with anger and hatred that she thought she would explode. "C-c-can't--" But in that moment, something totally weird happened. Maybe it was a flip of his head, a movement in his eyebrow, she couldn't tell. But it was as if someone had suddenly held a painting at a different angle, and what appeared to be a stormy sea transformed into a bright bouquet -- a trick of the eye that proved everything was just a matter of perspective. His eyes were not mocking at all. They were inviting her, asking her to laugh along. Suddenly, her rage billowed up and blew off in wisps, like a cloud. "You're ... a Cahill, too," she replied. "Touche." His eyes didn't move a millimeter from hers. This time she met his gaze. Solidly. This time she didn't feel like apologizing or attacking or running away. She wouldn't have minded if he just stared like that all day.

literature instead of cleanliness was next to godliness.

For your family, you do all that you can.

Pete said she didn’t like to read, and he could never get tight with a girl who didn’t like books.

Thus, our keepers. As for finders—well, we had to be our own finders.

I think different. And I can think different if I want to.

The things of the world fell by the wayside, you lost your speed and your eyesight and your fucking Electric Boogaloo, but literature was eternal,

the most basic rule of human discourse: when someone says they’re going to be honest with you, they are in most cases preparing to lie faster than a horse can trot.

She smiled too much. Like she could start laughing at any second. More than likely, the joke was at his expense.

If he wasn’t careful, she’d slip through his grasp.

Confession may or may not be good for the soul, but it's undoubtedly soothing to the nerves.

He’d found “Jane” first. Finders fuckin keepers.

Don’t let your good nature cloud your critical eye. The critical eye should always be cold and clear.

Go with your bad self.

Take your time. Get serene.

I’d turned into a giant ball of questions and conflicts and desires. I’d pretty much become my biggest nightmare. I was a rougher version of Jesse Walker. But a better looking one. A far better looking one.

I learned something else about love from Rowen. She taught me that when you do find the person you want to love for the rest of your life, it’s okay to embrace change. It’s okay to change yourself. Everyone likes to think that when they find that special someone, that person should accept them and their flaws, vices, and short-comings. Maybe they’re an amazing enough person that they do . . . but they shouldn't have to. A person should want to change themselves for the better when they find that person.

Let’s get you to your wedding, princess.” “I’ll make sure Rowen tosses the bouquet your way, sweetie,” Jesse said, adjusting his tie before buttoning his jacket. “Bite me, Walker.” He grinned at me. “Love you too, Black.

Mostly because nobody with his kind of talent has a right to hide it from the world.

I knew there were no ghosts in there, but on the other hand, what if there were?

the most basic rule of human discourse: when someone says they’re going to be honest with you, they are in most cases preparing to lie faster

His chief interest was in reading fiction, then trying to analyze what he had read, fitting into a larger pattern.

Every chaos has an order hidden in it. What we see as a chaos, is actually driven by a very disciplined and dedicated order of things. What we need to do is focus on the stuff before us, make our way through this chaos, and that order will sort itself out for us

manufacturing false hierarchies based on race and gender in order to enforce a brutal class system is a very long story. Our modern capitalist economy was born thanks to two very large subsidies: stolen Indigenous land ​and stolen African people. Both required the creation of intellectual theories that ranked the relative value of human lives and labor, placing white men at the top. These church and state–sanctioned theories of white (and Christian) supremacy are what allowed Indigenous civilizations to be actively “unseen” by European explorers—visually perceived and yet not acknowledged to have preexisting rights to the land—and entire richly populated continents to be legally classified as unoccupied and therefore fair game on an absurd “finders keepers” basis.

There are so many of us now that we threaten to devour the world with our touching, starting with the things we adore most. At the same time, we obviously yearn for contact, and I fear what would happen if we were cut off from a distinctive, on-the-ground relationship with the past.

You’re not swimming in glory until you find someone to swim with you. Glory isn’t glory if you don’t have someone to share it with. It’s just pride and bullshit on your own.” Unbelievable. Will Jones wasn’t only one badass cowboy; he pretty much could have been the love child of John Wayne and Yoda.

Deep below that rational part is an underground ocean – there's one inside every head, he believes – where strange creatures swim.

frankly speaking, you look like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.

Teenagers are fast. They’re like cockroaches that way.

Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.” That’s from the original Godfather,

It’s true what they say—sometimes the neuros are crazier than the patients.

Nope. Too Much,” Marin said, and tossed the little man out of the hospital window. She needed coffee. Either that or a large dose of Thorazine.

No! Not her! It can’t be! That bitch came over on the Ark!

Wake up, genius.

No one rides for free, and in the end, even the most seaworthy ship goes down, blub-blub-blub. The only way to balance that off, in Hodges’s opinion, is to make the most of every day afloat.

But I didn’t have to pretend anymore, because the girl I’d seen when I closed my eyes was standing in front of me. “Josie?” I lowered my face until it was level with hers—until I could feel the warmth of her breath on my lips.

...,but at least there were books. Books were escape.

Yeah,” he said. “When Tina came home, I made her peanut butter crackers.

No one rides for free, and in the end, even the most seaworthy ship goes down, blub-blub-blub.

For readers, one of life’s most electrifying discoveries is that they are readers—not just capable of doing it (which Morris already knew), but in love with it.

Fuck your warning. And fuck your mother. Either shoot me or get out of my house.

For readers, one of life’s most electrifying discoveries is that they are readers—not just capable of doing it (which Morris already knew), but in love with it. Hopelessly.

There was a muffled pop, the sound of a small pumpkin exploding in a microwave oven.

Better to stick with the original plan.

We need to talk is Momspeak for Houston, we have a problem.

Morris’s face is melting. He shrieks and begins hugging the blazing, dissolving remnants of Rothstein’s work to his burning chest.

Better than cancer or Alzheimer’s, that prime horror of anyone who has spent his life making a living by his wits.

Never so good as what you don’t see.

Smoke and Cigar Aficionado. It was a personal touch, a nod to bygone days, and Keith felt right at home here. A creature of habit, he’d been coming into Rudy’s every weekday

Let me get this straight. You didn’t feel it would be acceptable to enter my home without permission, but taking my clothes was just fine and dandy?” -Marin

No more obsessive writing, either, accumulating notebook after notebook like little piles of rabbit turds scattered along a woodland trail.

Those OxyContins he takes aren’t just pain pills, they’re stupid pills.

We've always used stories as a way to pass on our history, as a way to explain things in life that we don't understand. We use them to make us feel connected to everything around us, and to help us escape to another time or place. Bookshops across the world are full of these stories. From travelling booksellers and undercover bookshops, to pop-up stalls and community hubs, walking into a good bookshop is like walking into another zone.These places are time machines, spaceships, story-makers, secret-keepers. They are dragon-tamers, dream-catchers, fact-finders and safe places. They are full of infinite possibilities, and tales worth taking home. Because whether we're in the middle of the desert or in the heart of a city, on the top of a mountain or on an underground train: having good stories to keep us company can mean the whole world.

Holy shit. Rowen Sterling. Glowing. Married. I suppose now’s the time to start packing our bags for the apocalypse.” Jesse slugged my arm. Rowen got the other. “Holy shit. Garth Black. Present. Accounted for. Sober. Quick, no time to pack your bags for the apocalypse because it’s here.

He kept seeing the brains dribbling down the wallpaper. It wasn’t the killing that stayed on his mind, it was the spilled talent. A lifetime of honing and shaping torn apart in less than a second. All those stories, all those images, and what came out looked like so much oatmeal. What was the point?

In every jigsaw puzzle, there is one key piece, and the only tough job is to identify that key piece from the mess out there. “We have to identify that piece. The puzzle would never be completed without it

Damn, Josie. Are you trying to kill me?” She glanced back my way. “Not particularly right now. Why?” I didn’t even try to stop staring. It would have been a wasted effort. “Because that dress is enough to give a man a heart attack if you come any closer, or break a man’s heart if you walk away.” “Now lines like that help me understand why you’ve got a reputation for being such a ladies man.” “That wasn’t even my best one.” (…) That kind of dress could bring a man to his knee to propose, even if that had been the furthest thing from his mind when he woke up that morning. Hell, it was bringing me close to a proposal, and I was dead set against anything marriage related.

someone like him, is the island of exile where most teenagers go to wait until childhood becomes adulthood. What you need to see—what Rothstein finally saw, although it took him three books to do it—is that most of us become everyone.

Do you know if there’s a supermarket in this mall?” The voice is young. And white. Morris discovers he can breathe again. “Safeway,” he says, without turning. He has no idea if there’s a supermarket in the mall or not. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of the evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and goodwill, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper, and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee!

Ezekiel 25:17 - "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.

Stupid to keep cash, there was no reason for it other than his dislike of credit cards and checks and stocks and instruments of transfer, all the tempting chains that tied people to America’s overwhelming and ultimately destructive debt-and-spend machine.

I’m opinionated, obstinate, and obsessive. I am quick to anger, quick to cry, quick-witted and a slow runner. A very slow runner. I don’t know if you can really call it running, really. I don’t know what I want. Some heavy making out? Someone to text me for no reason? A person who is absolutely, positively in love with me? It varies, day by day. I know that I want you to play with my hair while we lay on the couch and listen to records. I want you to hold my hand while we’re driving and take out the trash before you’re ever asked. I want you to want me, but not need me. To be there for me without my asking, and to go away without being told. I want you to keep me company and keep your promises. PS: Please, don’t be shorter than me. Chapter Seven Finders Keepers

For readers, one of life's most electrifying discoveries is that are readers - not just capable of doing it, but in love with it. Hopelessly. Head over heels. The first book that does that is never forgotten, and each page seems to bring a fresh revelation, one that burns and exalts. Yes! That's how it is! Yes! I saw that, too! And, of course, That's what I think! That's what I FEEL!

The purpose of American culture is to create a norm, Morris. That means extraordinary people must be leveled, and it happens to Jimmy. He ends up working in advertising, for God's sake, and what greater agent of the norm is there in this fucked - up country?

It’s a prissy, overdecorated P238 SIG Sauer, red and black, with gold-inlaid flowers scrolling down the barrel. Morris drops the clip and sees it’s full. There’s even one in the pipe. He puts the clip back in and lays the gun on the desk—something else to take along.

Little by little, the long light of this June evening mellows to dusk. The kids who’ve been playing on sidewalks and front lawns go inside to watch TV or play video games or spend an educational evening texting various misspelled messages and dumbass emoticons to their friends.

Some of you will say, This is stupid. Will I break my promise not to argue the point, even though I consider Mr. Owen’s poems the greatest to come out of World War I? No! It’s just my opinion, you see, and opinions are like assholes: everybody has one.” They all roared at that, young ladies and gentlemen alike. Mr. Ricker drew himself up. “I may give some of you detentions if you disrupt my class, I have no problem with imposing discipline, but never will I disrespect your opinion. And yet! And yet!” Up went the finger. “Time will pass! Tempus will fugit! Owen’s poem may fall away from your mind, in which case your verdict of is-stupid will have turned out to be correct. For you, at least. But for some of you it will recur. And recur. And recur. Each time it does, the steady march of your maturity will deepen its resonance. Each time that poem steals back into your mind, it will seem a little less stupid and a little more vital. A little more important. Until it shines, young ladies and gentlemen. Until it shines.

At some point in this course, perhaps even tonight, you will read something difficult, something you only partially understand, and your verdict will be this is stupid. Will I argue when you advance that opinion in class the next day? Why would I do such a useless ting? My time with you in short, only thirty-four weeks of classes, and I will not waste it arguing about the merits of this short story or that poem. Why would I, when all such opinions are subjective, and no final resolution can ever be reached?' Some of the kids - Gloria was one of them - now looked lost, but Pete understood exactly what Mr. Ricker, aka Ricky the Hippie, was talking about... 'Time is the answer," Mr Ricker said on the first day of Pete's sophomore year. He strode back and forth, antique bellbottoms swishing, occasionally waving his arms. "Yes! Time mercilessly culls away the is-stupid from the not-stupid." ... "It will occur for you, young ladies and gentlemen, although I will be in your rear-view mirror by the time it happens. Shall I tell you how it happens? You will read something - perhaps 'Dulce et Decorum Est,' by Wilfred Owen. Shall we use that as an example? Why not?' Then, in a deeper voice that sent chills up Pete's back and tightened his throat, Mr. Ricker cried, " 'Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge...' And son on. Cetra-cetra. Some of you will say, This is stupid." .... 'And yet!" Up went the finger. "Time will pass! Tempus will fugit! Owen's poem may fall away from your mind, in which case your verdict of is-stupid will have turned out to be correct. For you, at least. But for some of you, it will recur. And recur. Each time it does, the steady march of your maturity will deepen its resonance. Each time that poem sneaks back into your mind, it will seem a little less stupid and a little more vital. A little more important. Until it shines, young ladies and gentlemen. Until it shines.

There was a muffled pop, the sound of a small pumpkin exploding in a microwave oven. Morris cut the wheel to the left and there was another bump as the Biscayne went back into the parking area. He looked in the mirror and saw that Curtis's head was gone. Well, no. Not exactly. It was there, but all spread out. Mooshed. No loss of talent in that mess. Morrie thought.

Stupid to keep cash, there was no reason for it other than his dislike of credit cards and checks and stocks and instruments of transfer, all the tempting chains that tied people to America’s overwhelming and ultimately destructive debt-and-spend machine. But the cash might be his salvation. Cash could be replaced. The notebooks, over a hundred and fifty of them, could not.

too aware, even as he says this very proper thank-you, that most people become customers sooner or later, here or at one of the city’s four other fine and not-so-fine sickbays. No one rides for free, and in the end, even the most seaworthy ship goes down, blub-blub-blub. The only way to balance that off, in Hodges’s opinion, is to make the most of every day afloat. But if that’s true, what