Matched Ally Condie Quotes

Growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that.

Every minute you spend with someone gives them a part of your life and takes part of theirs.

It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.

Is falling in love with someone's story the same thing as falling in love with the person himself?

In the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.

Once you want something, everything changes.

We could have been happy. I know that, and it is perhaps the hardest thing to know.

Now that I've found the way to fly, which direction should I go into the night?

Why are some things easier to write than say?

But if you were Matched," I say softly, "What do you think she'd be like?" "You," he says, almost before I've finished. "You.

That’s how I know they are dreams. Because the simple and plain and everyday things are the ones that we can never have. (Cassia Reyes)

I think of how perhaps the best way to fly would be with hands full of earth, so you always remember where you came from.

Love changes what is probable and makes unlikely things possible.

Ky can play this game. He can play all of their games, including the one in front of him that he just lost. He knows exactly how to play, and that's why he loses every time.

You cannot change your journey if you are unwilling to move at all.

Cassia. I know which life is my real one now, no matter what happens. It’s the one with you. For some reason, knowing that even one person knows my story makes things different. Maybe it’s like the poem says. Maybe this is my way of not going gentle. I love you. (Ky Markham)

I love. The most reckless thing of all.

Our time together feels like a storm, like a wild wind and rain, like something too big to handle but too powerful to escape.

I came up on the screen, too, Cassia. But he was the one you chose to see.

I want to reach out and grab his hand and hold it to me, right over my heart, right where it aches the most. I don't know if doing that would heal me or make my heart break entirely, but either way this constant hungry waiting would be over.

It is one thing to make a choice and it is another thing to never have the chance.

Red is the first color of spring. It's the real color of rebirth. Of beginning.

I wonder if I will ever have the strength to hold onto something. Or if I will always be someone who destroys.

His lips move silently, and I know what he says: the words of a poem that only two people in the world know.

No one should die alone.

I am trapped in glass and I want to break out and breath deep but I´m too afraid that it will hurt.

Forgetting lets you live without the pain for a moment but remembering hits hard.

I climb into the dark for you Are you waiting in the stars for me?

I realize now how much courage it takes to choose the life you want, whatever that might be.

Did the poet know how lucky he was, to have such beautiful words and a place to put them and keep them?

What is it about your voice that makes me want to hear you speak?

Remembering is part of thinking, but not all of it.

How can we appreciate anything fully when overwhelmed with too much?

In a story, you can turn to the front and begin again and everyone lives once more. That doesn't work in real life.

Once you want something, everything changes. Now I want everything. More and more and more.

It's all right to wonder.

Everyone has something of beauty about them. But loving lets you look, and look, and look again. You notice the back of a hand, the turn of a head, the way of a walk. When you first love, you look blind and you see it all as the glorious, beloved whole, or a beautiful sum of beautiful parts. But when you see the one you love as pieces, as why's, you can love those parts too, and it's a love at once more complicated and more complete.

I wish I could have one without the other, but that's the problem with being alive. You don't usually get to choose the measure of suffering or the degree of joy you have.

If you let hope inside, it takes you over. It feeds on your insides and uses your bones to climb and grow. Eventually it becomes the thing that is your bones, that holds you together. Holds you up until you don't know how to live without it anymore. To pull it out of you would kill you entirely.

There's a reason they didn't keep this poem. This poem tells you to fight.

Words mean what you want them to mean.

So in the middle of all the noise, I point to the sky. I hope he understands what I mean, because I mean so many things: My heart will always fly his name. I won't go gentle. I'll find a way to soar like the angels in the stories and I will find him. And I know he understands as he looks straight at me, deep into my eyes. His lips move silently, and I know what he says: the words of a poem that only two people in the world know. Tears well up but I blink them away. Because if there is one moment in my life that I want to see clearly, this is it.

In the absence of real thunder, he's making his own.

It's not knowing how to write that makes you interesting, it's what you write.

There is ebb and flow. Leaving and coming. Flight and fall. Sing and silent. Reaching and reached.

This is a cruel thing to do because when someone knows your story they know you. And they can hurt you. It's why I give mine away in pieces, even to Cassia.

Everyone has something of beauty about them.

Are you congratulating me on my life, or on my death?

We can either try to change everything or just make the most of whatever time we have.

For what is the point of having something lovely if you never share it? It would be like having a poem, a beautiful wild poem that no one else has, and burning it.

When we fall in love the first time, we don’t know anything. We risk a lot less than we do if we choose to love again. (Xander)

I like the places where one part meets another, I think, eyes to cheek, wrist to hands.

This is a difficult balance, telling the truth: how much to share, how much to keep, which truths will wound but not ruin, which will cut too deep to heal.

I see his eyes, bright with life adnfire, and I know he won't stop fighting. Even if it's the kind of quiet fight on the inside that you can't always see. And I won't stop fighting either.

Water's always moving. It's never the same.

They are giving us pieces of a real life instead of the whole thing. They have perfected the art of giving us just enought freedom; just enough that when we are ready to snap, a little bone is offered and we roll over, belly up, comfortable and placated like a dog... - Cassia

I remember what Anna called the three of us. The Pilot. The Poet. The Physic. They are in all of us. I believe this. They every person might have a way to fly, a line of poetry to put down for others to see, a hand to heal.

Even if he didn't live his story, enough of us have lives just like it. So it's true anyway.

It's nice, isn't it... to be part of something greater than yourself.

Because once you love, it is gone. You love and you cannot call it back.

And as the Society reminds us, there's a difference between knowledge and technology. Knowledge doesn't fail us.

Love has different shades. Like the way I loved Cassia when I thought she'd never love me. The way I loved her on the Hill. The way I love her now that she came into the canyon for me. It's different. Deeper. I thought I loved her and wanted her before, but as we walk through the canyon together I realize this could be more than a new shade. A whole new color.

And I'll tell her that I don't want my life to be samples and scraps. A taste of everything but a meal of nothing.

I didn't know all that was inside of him, either. I thought I did, but people run deep and complicated like rivers, hold their shape and are carved upon like stone.

Cassia and I sit as near to each other as we can. She leans into me and I keep my arms around her. I don't fool myself that I hold her together- she does that on her own- but holding her keeps me from flying apart.

Only when I hold onto nothing can I be the best, only then can I be what they expect me to be.

We have all been carved out by our sorrow. Cut deep like canyon walls.

And it strikes me that this is how writing anything is, really. A collaboration between you who give the words and they who take them and find meaning in them, or put music behind them, or turn them aside because they were not what was needed.

I run for her. I run for them. For me.

Some things are created to be together.

Because either way, whichever life I build, has to be built on truth.

This is the difference between us. I live to sort, he knows how to create.

I know how it feels when people look right through you, or worse, see you as something or someone other than what you are.

It's never really lost to you as long as you remember it.

Which goes to show that caring about anyone leaves you vulnerable.

Some people think the stars must look closer from up here. They don't. When you're up here, you realize how distant they really are—how impossible to reach.

Oh yes. His voice has music.

Green tablet. Green space. Green eyes. Green girl.

Do you think you could let someone go if you thought it was best for them?

Sometimes paper is just paper, words are just words. Ways to capture the real thing. Don't be afraid to remember that.

And it is strange that absence can feel like presence.

Because in the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.

So in the middle of all the noise, I point to the sky. I hope he understands what I mean, because I mean so many things: My heart will always fly his name. I won't go gentle. I'll find a way to soar life the angels in the stories and I will find him.

They were too much to carry so I left them behind for a new life, in a new place but no one forgot who I was.

I love you." lightning. Once it has forked, hot-white, from sky to earth, there is no going back. It's time. I feel it, I know it. My eyes on him, his on me, and both of us breathing, watching, tired of of waiting. Ky close his eyes, but mine are still open. what will it feel like, his lips on mine? Like a secret told, a promise kept? Like that line in the poem-a shower of all my days- silvery rain falling all around me, where the lighting meets the earth? The whistle blows below us and the moment breaks. We are safe. For now.

Writing, painting, singing- it cannot stop everything. Cannot halt death in its tracks. But perhaps it can make the pause between death’s footsteps sound and look and feel beautiful, can make the space of waiting a place where you can linger without as much fear. For we are all walking each other to our deaths, and the journey there between footsteps makes up our lives.

It was as though I saw for the first time that life could branch into different paths, take different directions.

I wonder if death will always taste this good

Of course, one person can be the world.

If I couldn’t name it, would I even know what it is? Would I even feel it at all?

He's in pain. I am, too. It strikes me that perhaps this is part of what we are fighting to choose. Which pain we feel.

I decided that it was the thoughts in your own mind that mattered more than anything else.

Maybe only parts of our stories can keep us safe. The whole can feel like too much to bear.

Our time together feels like a storm, like wild wind and rain, like something too big to handle but too powerful to escape. It blows around me and tangles my hair, leaves water on my face, makes me know that I am alive, alive, alive. There are moments of calm and pause as there are in every storm, and moments when our words fork lightening, at least for each other.

I never named anything I've written before no reason to since it would all have the same title anyway -for you- but I would call this one one night that night when we let the world be only you and only me we stood on it while it spun green and blue and red the music ended but we were still singing

I know you love me. I love you, I always will, but things can't hold like this. They have to break. You say you don't mind, that you will wait for me, but I think that you do mind, and you should. Because we've done too much waiting in our lives, Xander. Don't wait for me anymore. I hope for love for you. I hope for this more than anything else, maybe even more than my own happiness. And in a way, perhaps that means I love Xander best of all.

Lying in bed, my body and soul bruised and tired, I realize that the Officials are right. Once you want something, everything changes. Now I want everything. More and more and more. I want to pick my work position. Marry who I choose. Eat pie for breakfast and run down a real street instead of on a tracker. Go fast when I want and slow when I want. Decide which poems I want to read and what words I want to write. There is so much that I want. I feel it so much that I am water, a river of want, pooled in the shape of a girl named Cassia.

My words never last long. I have to destroy them before anyone sees them. But. I remember them all. For some reason, the act of writing them down makes me remember. Each word I write brings me closer to finding the right ones. And when I see Ky again, which I know will happen, I will whisper the words I have written in his ear, against his lips. and they will change from ash and nothing into flesh and blood.

Any other questions?" "Just one," I say. "What color are your eyes?" I want to know what he thinks, how he sees himself - the real Ky - when he dares to look. "Blue," he says sounding surprised, "they've always been blue." "Not to me." "What do they look like to you?" he says puzzled, amused. Not looking at my mouth anymore, looking into my eyes. "Lots of colors," I say. "At first I thought they were brown. Once I thought they were green..." "What are they now?" he asks. He widens his eyes a little, leans closer, lets me look as long and deep as I want. "Well?" "Everything," I tell him, "They're everything.

For a moment nothing happens. The figure stands still and I stand cold and alive and- He starts to run. I make my way down the rocks, slipping, sliding, trying to get to the plain. I wish, I think, my feet clumsy, moving too fast, not fast enough, I wish i could run, I wish I'd written a whole poem, I wish I kept the compass- And then I reach the plain and wish for nothing but what I have. Ky. Running toward me. I have never seen him run like this, fast, free, strong, wild. He looks so beautiful, his body moves so right. He stops just close enough for me to see the blue of his eyes and forget the red on my hands and the green I wish I wore. "You're here," he says, breathing hard and hungry. sweat and dirt cover his face, and he looks at me as though I'm the only thing he ever needed to see. I open my mouth to say yes. But I only have time to breathe in before he closes the last of the distance. All I know is the kiss.