Hand Jumper Quotes

Unlike Ronan, Adam's Aglionby jumper was second-hand, but he'd taken great care to be certain it was impeccable. He was slim and tall, with dusty hair unevenly cropped above a fine-boned, tanned face. He was a sepia photograph.

Villanelle for my valentine Old love, I thought I'd never see the time because of all we've done and often said when I'd be yours, my dear, and you'd be mine. And what relief to soften, and resign the battle of the heart over the head. old love, I thought I'd never see the time when qualms and cold feet that could undermine all we've held out for, dissipate instead now that I'm yours, my dear and you are mine. I'm still amazed how our two lives align the two of us! A pair! Take it as read, old love, I thought I'd never see the time The tangle of our jumpers in the line, the battle for the blankets in our bed confirm that I am yours, and you are mine. So then, this is my pledge, my valentine: my hand's in yours for all that lies ahead. Oh love, there's never been a better time now that I'm yours, and finally, you're mine.

I had to see if you would actually come.” Agnes took hold of the neck of his jumper then. Shug picked up his money belt and kissed her with a forceful tongue. He had to squeeze all the small bones in her hands to get her to release him. She had loved him, and he had needed to break her completely to leave her for good. Agnes Bain was too rare a thing to let someone else love. It wouldn’t do to leave pieces of her for another man to collect and repair later.

(...) I'm my very best self when I'm with him, but every day, I want him more than I need him. He taught me that love is patient, love is kind, love is calm and quiet. It's not a music video of big hair, big tears and erotic, electrical storms. It's two people pottering about a small flat making each other coffee. It's waking up every morning and feeling quietly delighted as you smell the sleep on his skin and observe the the way his tufty hair is framed by the pillow. It's sly hands sneaking up jumpers to stroke the silky skin underneath and wanting to share all your big news, bad news and pictures of especially adorable dogs. It's knowing that there's nothing that can't be talked over and solved by a walk to the park or a trip to the pub.

A sharp pain radiated along the back of his hand. He inspected the bleeding crack, smearing a droplet of blood with his thumb. His skin was getting worse. Dad would know what to do, but by the time he decided to come home . . . well, anything could have happened.

As she fought the slick roads, her phone rang. She cursed herself for not plugging it into her car charger, at least then she could’ve answered through the hands free device. The next bend was coming up, she knew from her daily drives up and down. Her knuckles were white from the death grip she had on the steering wheel.

Samuel looked at Chief WalksAlong, at all the Tribal Cops, at Lester. He shifted the ball from his left hip to his right. He spun the ball in his hands, felt the leather against his fingertips, and closed his eyes. “What the hell are you doing?” the Chief asked. With his eyes still closed, Samuel drove to the basket, around his defenders, and pulled up for a short jumper. The ball rotated beautifully. Years later, Lester still swore that ball stopped in midair, just spun there like it was on a stick, like the ball wanted to make sure everyone noticed its beauty. “That shot was vain,” Lester said. “That shot was the best story I ever told.” Samuel said.

Bradley is one of the few basketball players who have ever been appreciatively cheered by a disinterested away-from-home crowd while warming up. This curious event occurred last March, just before Princeton eliminated the Virginia Military Institute, the year's Southern Conference champion, from the NCAA championships. The game was played in Philadelphia and was the last of a tripleheader. The people there were worn out, because most of them were emotionally committed to either Villanova or Temple-two local teams that had just been involved in enervating battles with Providence and Connecticut, respectively, scrambling for a chance at the rest of the country. A group of Princeton players shooting basketballs miscellaneously in preparation for still another game hardly promised to be a high point of the evening, but Bradley, whose routine in the warmup time is a gradual crescendo of activity, is more interesting to watch before a game than most players are in play. In Philadelphia that night, what he did was, for him, anything but unusual. As he does before all games, he began by shooting set shots close to the basket, gradually moving back until he was shooting long sets from 20 feet out, and nearly all of them dropped into the net with an almost mechanical rhythm of accuracy. Then he began a series of expandingly difficult jump shots, and one jumper after another went cleanly through the basket with so few exceptions that the crowd began to murmur. Then he started to perform whirling reverse moves before another cadence of almost steadily accurate jump shots, and the murmur increased. Then he began to sweep hook shots into the air. He moved in a semicircle around the court. First with his right hand, then with his left, he tried seven of these long, graceful shots-the most difficult ones in the orthodoxy of basketball-and ambidextrously made them all. The game had not even begun, but the presumably unimpressible Philadelphians were applauding like an audience at an opera.

I followed his gaze on my pillow, upon which rested a thing I did not recognize, woolen and oddly shaped. I seized it abruptly, indignant. It was my jumper! "How---what have you---" "I'm sorry," he said, not looking up from the flicker and flash of the needle. "But you cannot expect me to live in close proximity to clothing that barely deserves the word. It is inhumane." I shook out the jumper, gaping. I could hardly tell it was the same garment. Yes, it was the same color, but the wool itself seemed altered, becoming softer, finer, without losing any of its warmth. And it was not a baggy square anymore; it would hang only a little loose on me now, while clearly communicating the lines of my figure. "From now on, you will keep your damned hands off my clothes!" I snapped, then flushed, realizing how that sounded. Bambleby took no notice of any of it. "Do you know that there are men and women who would hand over their firstborns to have their wardrobes tended by a king of Faerie?" he said, calmly snipping a thread. "Back home, every courtier wanted a few moments of my time." "King?" I repeated, staring at him. And yet I was not hugely surprised---it would explain his magic. A king or queen of Faerie, the stories say, can tap into the power of their realm. Yet that power, while vast, is not thought to be limitless, there are tales of kings and queens falling for human trickery. And Bambleby's exile is of course additional testimony.

What first comes across our minds About the stocky Mexican Pushing a mower across the lawn At 7 a.m. on a Saturday As the roar of the cutter wakes us? Let me take a guess. Why do they have to come so damn early? What do we make of his flannel Shirt missing buttons at the cuffs, Threadbare at the shoulders, The grass stains around his knees, The dirt like roadmaps to nowhere, Between the wrinkles of his neck? Let me take a shot. Dirty Mexican. Would his appearance lead us to believe He is a border jumper or wetback Who hits the bar top with an empty shot glass For the twelfth time then goes home To kick his wife around like fallen grapefruit Lying on the ground? First, the stocky Mexican isn’t mowing the lawn At 7 a.m. on a Saturday. He doesn’t work weekends anymore ever since He lost one-third of his route To laborers willing to work for next to nothing. Second, he knows better than to kneel On the wet grass because, well, the knees Of his pants will become grass-stained And pants don’t grow on trees, even here, Close to Palm Springs. Instead, after 25 years of the same blue collar work, Two sons out and one going to college, Rather than jail, and a small but modest savings In case he loses the remaining two-thirds Of his work—no matter how small and reluctantly The checks come in the mail— My father the stocky gardener believes He firmly holds his life In both his hands like pruning shears, Chopping branches and blossoms, Never looking downward as they fall to his feet In pieces like the American dream.

I'd thought about this for a long time. "That bank loses that much money in bad loans every  month. They make that much money in interest every day. They're a big bank. The money I  took was small change to them. No depositor was hurt." She shook her head. "I still can't approve of it. I don't think it's right." I felt my face go remote, still. I crossed my arms and felt cold. She spread her hands. "It doesn't change the fact that I still love you. I've missed you terribly.  I've missed your phone calls, and I've missed your body in bed next to me. I don't know what  to do about this. My loving you goes way beyond my disapproval of your theft." I uncrossed my arms and reached across the table for her. She leaned forward and we kissed  until the candle burned a hole in my shirt. Then we laughed and I held an ice cube to the  burn and the food came and everything was all right.

Still on the subject of eating, we don’t have our own plates, or our own knives and forks or cups. Like most of what we use, they’re communal, they’re handed out at random. There’s no chance for anything to become imbued, to come alive through fondness. Nothing here is aware, no chair, no cup. Nobody can get fond of anything. At home I walked through a haze of belongings that knew, at least vaguely, who they belonged to. Grampar’s chair resented anyone else sitting on it as much as he did himself. Gramma’s shirts and jumpers adjusted themselves to hide her missing breast. My mother’s shoes positively vibrated with consciousness. Our toys looked out for us. There was a potato knife in the kitchen that Gramma couldn’t use. It was an ordinary enough brown-handled thing, but she’d cut herself with it once, and ever after it wanted more of her blood. If I rummaged through the kitchen drawer, I could feel it brooding. After she died, that faded. Then there were the coffee spoons, rarely used, tiny, a wedding present. They were made of silver, and they knew themselves superior to everything else and special.

There was a man in the garden with the little girl. He was turning over the soil in a garden bed. He had obviously heard the car, because he raised his hand in greeting, but then he had gone back to his work. He had actually turned his back on the car. Tina thought she knew what that meant. The man had not wanted to see Pete the policeman. Maybe he thought Pete was bringing bad news. Tina smiled. Here was good news. Finally, here was good news for this family. The man dug the garden fork into the soil with a little bit of effort. He was deliberately not looking at Pete. The little girl walked down the driveway towards them. Pete said quietly, ‘No real way to prepare them. You go ahead, Lockie.’ Lockie squeezed Tina’s hand. ‘Go on, Lockie, it’s your dad. He’s been looking for you for a long time. Go on.’ She pulled her hand slowly out of Lockie’s grip. She wanted to save him from his fear, but she had saved him once. Lockie would have to do this by himself. The little girl who was surely Sammy looked back at her father, but he was still concentrating on his work. She smiled in Pete’s direction and then she focused on Lockie. She stared at him, as if trying to work out exactly who he was. Lockie pushed his hood back, exposing his short blond hair. He stood, and Tina could sense him holding his breath, waiting for his sister to see him. To really see him. Sammy stared hard at Lockie now, frowning. And then Tina saw recognition light up her face. She looked at her father who had still not looked up. She looked back at Lockie. She started jumping up and down. ‘Lockie!’ she screamed. ‘Lockie, Lockie, Lockie!’ Lockie smiled.The man jerked upright and dropped the garden fork. ‘Stop that, Samantha,’ he whispered angrily. ‘Jesus, stop that! Be quiet. Stop that.’ ‘Lockie, Lockie, Lockie!’ The little girl flew down the driveway and launched herself at her brother, who went, ‘Oof,’ but he steadied himself and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Lockie, Lockie, Lockie,’ she repeated, as if to make the moment real for herself. The man stood and stared at his children, still without realising that he was indeed looking at both his children. He started walking down the driveway. He began with an angry quick stride but the closer he got the more unsure his steps became. He was a big man in charge of a big farm but his steps became small and faltering. Tina could see the disbelief spreading across his face. Sammy let go of Lockie and took his hand. She started pulling him up the driveway. ‘It’s Lockie, Dad. Look, it’s Lockie, come look, Dad, Lockie’s home. He’s home, Dad. I knew he home. He’s home, Dad. I knew he would come home. I told you, Dad. Look its Lockie. Lockie, Lockie, Lockie’s home. Lockie’s home.’ The man stopped a few feet away from Lockie. His mouth was open. He moved it once or twice, but no words came out, and then came a sound that Tina had never heard before. It was a moaning, keening sound, but rough with the depth of his voice. It was four months of agony and the ecstasy of this moment all rolled into one. It was his heart right out there in the open for everyone to see. He opened his arms and dropped to his knees. Lockie let go of Sammy’s hand and continued alone up the driveway towards his father. He was twisting his hands and pulling at his jumper. He walked into his father’s arms and was completely surrounded by the large man. ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry.’ At the bottom of the driveway Tina watched Lockie and his father. Lockie’s voice was muffled by his father’s arms, but Tina could still hear him repeating, ‘I’m sorry.’ Say it, Tina begged the man silently. Please, please, just say it. ‘Oh, Lockie,’ said the man through his tears, his large shoulders heaving. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry, Lockie. I’m sorry. I’ve been looking for you, Lockie. Where did you go, mate? Where did you go?

Muldoon worried even more about the velociraptors. They were instinctive hunters and they never passed up prey. They killed even when they weren't hungry. They killed for the pleasure of killing. They were swift; strong runners and astonishing jumpers. They had lethal claws on all four limbs; a swipe of a forearm would disembowel a man, spilling his guts out. And they had powerful tearing jaws that ripped flesh instead of biting it. They were far more intelligent than the other dinosaurs and they seemed to be natural cage-breakers. Every zoo expert knew that certain animals were especially likely to get free of their cages. Some, like monkeys and elephants, could undo cage doors. Some, like wild pigs, were unusually intelligent and could life gate fasteners with their snouts. But who would suspect that the giant armadillo was a notorious cage-breaker? Or the moose? Yet a moose was almost as skillful with its snout as an elephant with its trunk. Moose were always getting free; they had a talent for it. And so did velociraptors. Raptors were at least as intelligent as chimpanzees and like chimpanzees, they had agile hands that enabled them to open doors and manipulate objects. They could escape with ease. And when, as Muldoon had feared, one of them finally escaped, it killed two construction workers and maimed a third before being recaptured.

They hadn't the first thing to do with inventing wormholes; it was the same pure imbecilic drooling luck that so many of the bloody things opened up just outside Aluno Prime's gravitational sphere of influence that dealt Europe a royal flush of luxury high-speed horses, butter-dispensing cows, jumper-shedding sheep, bacon-distributing pigs, and nonunionized donkeys, and Australia a full hand of fuck all.

Truth be told, slaves in Jamaica have more ranking among themself than massa. In this place two thing matter more than most, how dark a nigger you be and where the white man choose to put you. One have all to do with the other. From highest to lowest, this be how things go. The number one prime nigger who would never get sell is the head of the house slaves. That position so hoity-toity that in some house is a white woman who be that nigger. The head house nigger get charge with so much that she downright run the house, and everybody including the massa do what she say. Homer careful not to cross the line, though. Position can make a negro girl forget herself and there is always the cowhide, the cat-o’-nine and the buckshot to remind her of her place. After she, there be the house slaves who work the rooms and the grounds and the gardens. Sometimes is the prime pretty niggers or the mulatto, quadroon or mustee that work there. Then you have the cooks who the backra trust the most, because the cook know that if the mistress get sick after a meal there goin’ be a whipping or a hanging before the cock even crow. Other house slaves be cleaning and dusting and shining and manservanting and womanservanting and taking care of backra pickneys. After the house slaves come the artisan niggermens, like the blacksmith, the bricklayer, the tanner, the silversmith, niggers who skilled with they hands, followed by the stable boys, coachmen and carters. Next is the field niggers, headed by the Johnny-jumpers who be the right hand and left hand of the slave-drivers. They do most of the whipping and kicking but when the estate running right they have nothing to do, so they whip and kick harder. After Johnny-jumper come the Great Slave Gang, the most expensive slaves, the one who they buy for the long years of hard work. The mens and the womens strapping and handsome like a prime horse. Most be Ashanti, what the white man call Coromantee, but they not easy to control so they get punish plenty for they spiritedness. But a dead Coromantee man can set an estate back up to three hundred pounds so they careful not to kill too much. After that is the Petit Gang, the makeup of plain common nigger. Some cost less than one hundred pounds and they work the other fields, like the ratoon or the tobacco that some planters grown on the side. Other nigger look down ’pon them mens as worthless and them womens as good for rutting, not breeding. On some estate even the pickneys work, mostly in the trash gang to pick up rubbish on the estate or to carry water for the field slaves to drink, or to get firewood. That be the negroes.

Squib’s blood was up and he cantered excitedly to the crossbar, flinging himself over and racing the two strides to the vertical. Deb yelled to me to sit up and hold him, and I did my best as we made the three strides to the oxer. Squib never flinched at the height, seeming to view it as a personal challenge, and he flew over easily. I was grinning as we landed, but not for long. Squib was so thrilled by his own efforts that he gave himself a victory lap, pulling the reins out of my hands and launching into a series of triumphant bucks. I was thrown from the saddle, and as the grass came rushing up to meet me, all I could think before I hit the ground were two simple words. Worth it.

Then Zack cannonballed through one of my taped windows.  He rolled, scrambled to his hands and knees, and sprinted toward the river. Mimi vaulted out the window after him, her form champion jumper perfect.

There are times today when Rachel looks at Zach and sees an effusion, she sees him in colours of yellow and blue, sun and sky. She sees the yellow crew-neck jumper and blue jeans the boy of eight years old appeared in the day he came to Chelsea from the Coram Family via the two or three previous fosterers who returned him there, defeated, pronouncing him uncommunicative and maladroit in the extreme, animal, said one; unruly. So why this boy? For Katya the fractious? Of all the orphan boys in the world, why him? Of all potential mothers, why Katya? What did she see? Everyone has a part and a destiny. Rachel remembers the yellow jumper the boy rarely removed, even after the family shopping spree for a new wardrobe at Harrods followed by lunch in a restaurant with napkins large as small tablecloths, and heavy cutlery and wine for Katya and Lev and a pervasive daunting hush. Zach had never been to a restaurant before and chose spaghetti, because he knew what it was. He ate it with knife and fork. On the day he arrived in Chelsea, he stopped in the vestibule to slip his feet from lace-ups without undoing the bows, removing his shoes with institutional efficiency, left hand still held in Katya's right. Rachel sees that boy still, blue and yellow. Sky and sun.

I’d looked around my room at the ribbons and sashes and rosettes hanging from the walls, at the photos of my ponies clearing the highest fences with me crouched in the saddle, a look of utter determination on my face. I’d made myself look hard at the pictures, at my legs swinging backwards over the fences, at my body lying low over my pony’s neck, my hands grasping at the reins as I turned them in mid-air. At the way that Teddy’s eyes were bulging as I pulled him around a tight turn, at the way the veins popped out on Buck’s lathered neck, at Springbok’s open mouth, dripping with foam. I’d looked hard at them all, and I hadn’t liked what I’d seen.

His fingers cupped my face, cradling my cheek and jaw as if I was made of glass. I found a handful of his soft hair and wound my fingers into it, while curling my other hand into the shoulder of his leather coat. My heart hadn’t even stopped thundering from the Foul Woman’s presence. Now it was thrumming against my ribs again, too fast to count the beats. I did something I’d always secretly wanted to and bit down, very gently, on his beautiful bottom lip. Shinobu’s breath shivered into my mouth, and he pulled me closer.   I was taller now, but not tall enough. Tiptoes didn’t bring me where I wanted to be either. I jumped and hauled myself up the steel pillar of his body, wrapping one leg around his hip. The big, warm hand on my waist slid slowly down the thin fabric of my trousers to cup my thigh, supporting my weight. His other hand was clenched in my hair. A wave of almost painful excitement and yearning crashed through me, and sent me into a full-body shudder that I had no chance of hiding. A tiny moan popped from my lips straight into his.   “Mio. Oh, Mio…” His shaking voice echoed in my ears, mixing with words in Japanese. I recognized some of them. My beloved. My Mio. He pressed his mouth to my eyelid, my cheek, the edge of my jaw, the skin beneath my ear.   There was a loud tearing noise. We both froze.   Abruptly I was aware of the wall against my back, and the tremble in my thigh from hanging onto him like a demented spider monkey. I swallowed and blinked as Shinobu eased back, letting my feet drop to the pavement again. Our eyes met.   “What just…?” I asked.   He cleared his throat. “I think – my shirt.”   I looked down and saw that at some point I’d traded my grip on his hair for a handful of the T-shirt and jumper under his jacket. My fingers had gone straight through the thin wool and made a nice tear in the cotton beneath that too.   “Darn super-strength,” I muttered.   Shinobu’s lip twitched up at the corner again. I snatched my hand away from his ruined clothes and clapped it over his mouth. “No laughing at me,” I said, only half joking. “Not at a moment like this. Romance will die forever and it’ll be your fault.” He peeled my hand off and pressed a kiss to my palm. “Where are we now? What is this place?” “Um … Remnant Street, I think.”   “No. From now on it will be Paradise Street. Heaven Road. Happiness Avenue.”   “You big cheese-ball…” I muttered, putting my arms around his waist and hugging him tightly.   “What?”   “Never mind!” I grumped, then sighed. “I wish we could stay on Happiness Avenue a bit longer…”   “But we can’t,” he finished. “It is all right. I promise we will come back whenever you want.

She felt like she had been waiting forever for his kiss. All those weeks of flirting and games, all leading to this one moment. Chapter Eleven Her heart beat wildly, her brain turned to mush and every bone in her body was yearning to get even closer to him. His hands snaked under her jumper and explored the bare flesh of her midriff. She murmured in pleasure and her own hands sought out the buttons of his shirt. She began to undo them, still kissing him passionately. She wanted more and pressed her body against him.

His hands snaked under her jumper and explored the bare flesh of her midriff. She murmured in pleasure and her own hands sought out the buttons of his shirt. She began to undo them, still kissing him passionately. She wanted more and pressed her body against him.

Our bodies may take months to travel between worlds, but our disputes and arguments take seconds or minutes. As long as everybody agrees to abide by my arbitration, physical enforcement can wait until they’re close enough to touch. And everybody does agree that my legal framework is easier to comply with, better adjusted to trans-Jovian space, than any earthbound one.” A note of steel creeps into her voice, challenging. Her halo brightens, tickling a reactive glow from the walls of the throne room. Five billion inputs or more, Sadeq marvels. The crown is an engineering marvel, even though most of its mass is buried in the walls and floor of this huge construct. “There is law revealed by the Prophet, peace be unto him, and there is law that we can establish by analyzing his intentions. There are other forms of law by which humans live, and various interpretations of the law of God even among those who study His works. How, in the absence of the word of the Prophet, can you provide a moral compass?” “Hmm.” She taps her fingers on the arm of her throne, and Sadeq’s heart freezes. He’s heard the stories from the claim jumpers and boardroom bandits, from the greenmail experts with their roots in the earthbound jurisdictions that have made such a hash of arbitration here. How she can experience a year in a minute, rip your memories out through your cortical implants, and make you relive your worst mistakes in her nightmarishly powerful simulation space. She is the queen—the first individual to get her hands on so much mass and energy that she could pull ahead of the curve of binding technology, and the first to set up her own jurisdiction and rule certain experiments to be legal so that she could make use of the mass/energy intersection. She has force majeure—even the Pentagon’s infowarriors respect the Ring Imperium’s autonomy for now. In fact, the body sitting in the throne opposite him probably contains only a fraction of her identity. She’s by no means the first upload or partial, but she’s the first gust front of the storm of power that will arrive when the arrogant ones achieve their goal of dismantling the planets and turning dumb and uninhabited mass into brainpower throughout the observable reaches of the universe. And he’s just questioned the rectitude of her vision, in her presence.

Walking around the Quarter with its horses and buggies, cobblestone streets, and kerosene lamps felt like stepping back in time, all the way back to the time when Louise was a small child living in Fayetteville. I imagined her in a linen jumper with a white collar, skipping along the cobblestones, avoiding the cracks that would break her mother's back. It was quiet outside as well as sweltering August temperatures kept tourists off the streets and residents inside their homes. The blocks felt private and sensual as Gabriel and I held hands and walked under the lush vegetation spilling from the baskets that hung off the balconies of the houses on St. Philip. I could smell the sweet olive and the jasmine and I had the pleasant sensation of knowing that they were coming from outside of my body. New Orleans was my equal in scent, and as long as it was night and the air was a degree or two cooler than in the daytime I was sure I could walk around freely without attracting any unwanted attention.

I don’t want to be your friend, Casper,” I tell her truthfully. Her lips turn down, her eyes falling to the sleeve of her jumper that she’s twisting in her hands. She looks so small, so lost as I speak. My mouth quirks up when she gapes at my new words. “I just want to be yours.

I have to hold your hand to establish the connection,” Cole said. “I bet you use that on all the girls,” Violet replied. Cole noticed Harmony turning away to cover a laugh. Violet held out her hand. “Try not to fall in love,” Cole said, gingerly touching a couple of her fingers.

This evening Maxine finds herself abroad in this pageant of classic NYC behavior, having made the mistake of offering to spring for a turkey if Elaine will cook it, and compounded it by putting in an advance order at Crumirazzi, a gourmet shop down toward 72nd. She gets there after supper to find the place jammed tighter than a peak-period subway with anxious citizens gathering supplies for their Thanksgiving feasts, and the turkey line folded on itself eight or ten times and moving very, very slowly. People are already screaming at each other, and civility, like everything on the shelves, is in short supply. A serial line jumper has been making his way forward along the turkey line, a large white alpha male whose social skills, if any, are still in beta, intimidating people one by one out of his way. "Excuse me?" Shoving ahead of an elderly lady waiting in line just behind Maxine. "Line jumper here," the lady yells, unslinging her shoulder bag and preparing to deploy it. "You must be from out of town," Maxine addressing the offender, "here in New York, see, the way you're acting? It's considered a felony." "I'm in a hurry, bitch, so back off, unless you want to settle this outside?" "Aw. After all your hard work getting this far? Tell you what, you go out and wait for me, OK? I won't be too long, I promise." Shifting to indignation, "I have a houseful of children to feed—" but he's interrupted by a voice someplace over by the loading dock hollering, "Hey asshole!" and here cannonballing over the heads of the crowd comes a frozen turkey, hits the bothersome yup square in the head, knocking him flat and bouncing off his head into the hands of Maxine, who stands blinking at it like Bette Davis at some baby with whom she must unexpectedly share the frame. She hands the object to the lady behind her. "This is yours, I guess." "What, after it touched him? thanks anyway." "I'll take it," sez the guy behind her. As the line creeps forward, everybody makes sure to step on, not over, the fallen line jumper.

Mohair jumpers, knitted on big needles, so loosely that you can see all the way through them, T-shirts slashed and written on by hand, seams and labels on the outside, showing the construction of the piece; these attitudes are reflected in the music we make. It’s OK not to be perfect, to show the workings of your life and your mind in your songs and your clothes. And everything you do in life is meaningful on a political level.

My smells of university are the tarry wax on Barbour jackets and the oily wool of a Guernsey jumper. Fiendish fruity Pimms made in plastic dustbins for summer parties, with sickly sweet lemonade, fragrant with slices of apple and cucumber and handfuls of mint.

The game is Dare.” A Dauntless girl, Lauren, is holding on to the handle on the side of the train car, but she keeps swaying so she almost falls out, then giggling and pulling herself back in, like the train isn’t suspended two stories above the street, like she wouldn’t break her neck if she fell out. In her free hand is a silver flask. It explains a lot. She tilts her head. “First person picks someone and dares them to do something. Then that person has a drink, does the dare, and gets a chance to dare someone else to do something. And when everyone has done their dare--or died trying--we get a little drunk and stumble home.” “How do you win?” one of the Dauntless calls out from the other side of the train car. A boy who sits slouched against Amar like they’re old friends, or brothers. I’m not the only initiate in the train car. Sitting across from me is Zeke, the first jumper, and a girl with brown hair and bangs cut straight across her forehead, and a pierced lip. The others are older, Dauntless members all. They have a kind of ease with one another, leaning into one another, punching one another’s arms, tousling one another’s hair. It’s camaraderie and friendship and flirtation, and none of it is familiar to me. I try to relax, bending my arms around my knees. I really am a Stiff. “You win by not being a little pansycake,” Lauren says. “And, hey, new rule, you also win by not asking dumb questions.

Make the announcement, Four.” She’s my initiate, after all, this transfer from Abnegation. I look over my shoulder, at the crowd of Dauntless members who have gathered to watch the initiates jump, and I announce, “First jumper--Tris!” This way, they’ll remember her, not for the gray she wears but for her first act of bravery. Or insanity. Sometimes they’re the same thing. Everyone cheers, and as the sound fills the cavern, another initiate plummets into the net with a blood-curdling scream. A girl dressed in Candor black and white. This time, Lauren is the one to reach across the net to help her. I touch a hand to Tris’s back to guide her toward the stairs, in case she’s not as steady as she seems. Before she takes the first step, I say, “Welcome to Dauntless.

We live together in the amphitheatre of high-performing sport. We love. We hate. We contest. We cuddle. But this here is street-level. We’re just two blokes jostling for power. I didn’t think I wanted the rank. I’ve been his beloved underling for eight years. He’s shared everything with me: his captaincy, his family life, and even, fuck, his wife. But in the last 20 minutes, I’ve taken over from him without consultation, almost without a thought. I just took the lightsabre out of his hand. I may as well have taken his number-five jumper and burned it on the cross, too. Jerome Kremers, book 2, TEAM PURSUIT

Vivienne [Westwood] and Malcolm [McLaren] use clothes to shock, irritate and provoke a reaction but also to inspire change. Mohair jumpers, knitted on big needles, so loosely that you can see all the way through them, T-shirts slashed and written on by hand, seams and labels on the outside, showing the construction of the piece; these attitudes are reflected in the music we make. It’s ok not to be perfect, to show the workings of your life and your mind in your songs and your clothes. And everything you do in life is meaningful on a political level. That’s why we’re all merciless about each other’s failings and why sloppiness is derided.

Usually, on the rare occasion that I get persuaded to give dating a try, I focus in on the minutiae of everything that is wrong with the guy. Maybe they have ugly hands, or sniff too much, or have one crooked tooth. Maybe he mentions a book I find pretentious or takes too long to choose what beer he wants. Bad facial hair, a high-pitched laugh, rests his hand on my leg, likes rugby too much, likes me too much, boastful, shy, boring, annoying, too earnest, too cocky, wearing a quirky jumper, V-neck t-shirt, bad glasses, or novelty socks. Tells a Jimmy Carr joke, has nails that are too perfect, works in marketing at a finance company and thinks they count as a ‘creative’. Has no opinion or too forceful an opinion. Texts to say they are running late but spells it, ‘L8’. Any of the above can be enough to send me running for the hills.

Hurry, Harry Potter!’ squeaked Dobby, plucking at Harry’s sleeve. ‘You is supposed to be down by the lake with the other champions, sir!’ ‘It’s too late, Dobby,’ Harry said hopelessly. ‘I’m not doing the task, I don’t know how –’ ‘Harry Potter will do the task!’ squeaked the elf. ‘Dobby knew Harry had not found the right book, so Dobby did it for him!’ ‘What?’ said Harry. ‘But you don’t know what the second task is –’ ‘Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Wheezy –’ ‘Find my what?’ ‘– and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!’ ‘What’s a Wheezy?’ ‘Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy – Wheezy who is giving Dobby his jumper!’ Dobby plucked at the shrunken maroon sweater he was now wearing over his shorts. ‘What?’ Harry gasped. ‘They’ve got … they’ve got Ron?’ ‘The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!’ squeaked Dobby. ‘And past an hour –’ ‘–“the prospect’s black”,’ Harry recited, staring, horror-struck, at the elf, ‘“Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back …” Dobby – what’ve I got to do?’ ‘You has to eat this, sir!’ squeaked the elf, and he put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a ball of what looked like slimy, greyish green rat tails. ‘Right before you go into the lake, sir – Gillyweed!’ ‘What’s it do?’ said Harry, staring at the Gillyweed. ‘It will make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!’ ‘Dobby,’ said Harry frantically, ‘listen – are you sure about this?’ He couldn’t quite forget that the last time Dobby had tried to ‘help’ him, he had ended up with no bones in his right arm. ‘Dobby is quite sure, sir!’ said the elf earnestly. ‘Dobby hears things, sir, he is a house-elf, he goes all over the castle as he lights the fires and mops the floors, Dobby heard Professor McGonagall and Professor Moody in the staff room, talking about the next task … Dobby cannot let Harry Potter lose his Wheezy!’ Harry’s doubts vanished. Jumping to his feet he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into his bag, grabbed the Gillyweed and put it into his pocket, then tore out of the library with Dobby at his heels. ‘Dobby is supposed to be in the kitchens, sir!’ Dobby squealed as they burst into the corridor. ‘Dobby will be missed – good luck, Harry Potter, sir, good luck!’ ‘See you later, Dobby!’ Harry shouted, and he sprinted along the corridor and down the stairs, three at a time.

Sebastien had offered to leave them behind when he came to Moscow for a winter holiday, but Jack would rather endure the cold than be parted from his patron for four months, and so he wrapped himself in jumpers and coats and tugged sable caps down over his ears-and still the cold found crevices to work through. It pried at the hems of his clothing as if it had fingers and a malevolent sense of humor, and somehow managed to get icy hands down his neck, up his sleeves, across the small of his back.