Nick Hall Booked Quotes

What in the—? My begonias!” he heard someone say behind him. Nick looked over his shoulder. A small but muscular woman in sweaty workout clothes was stepping out of a big shiny car in the neighbor’s driveway. She was gaping in horror at the chewed-up flowerbed and the smoking lawn mower. Scowling, she turned toward Uncle Newt’s house. And the scowl didn’t go away when she noticed Nick looking back at her. In fact, it got scowlier. Nick smiled weakly, waved, and hurried into the house. He closed the door behind him. “Whoa,” he said when his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside. Cluttering the long hall in front of him were dozens of old computers, a telescope, a metal detector connected to a pair of bulky earphones, an old-fashioned diving suit complete with brass helmet, a stuffed polar bear (the real, dead kind), a chainsaw, something that looked like a flamethrower (but couldn’t be … right?), a box marked KEEP REFRIGERATED, another marked THIS END UP (upside down), and a fully lit Christmas tree decorated with ornaments made from broken beakers and test tubes (it was June). Exposed wires and power cables poked out of the plaster and veered off around every corner, and there were so many diplomas and science prizes and patents hanging (all of them earned by Newton Galileo Holt, a.k.a. Uncle Newt) that barely an inch of wall was left uncovered. Off to the left was a living room lined with enough books to put some libraries to shame, a semitransparent couch made of inflated plastic bags, and a wide-screen TV connected by frayed cords to a small trampoline.

Basically, this is a rigorous analysis that shows that numerous universal constants—like the force of gravity, the weight of a proton, the force that binds protons and neutrons within atomic nuclei, and so on—have to be almost exactly what they are for life to exist in the universe. The odds of these constants all having the precise values needed for life are worse than the odds of winning the lottery a thousand times in a row. “So how is this possible? Theologians believe God is the answer. Scientists were initially stumped but soon declared that this riddle was easily answered if one posited an infinite number of universes. Given an infinite number of universes, one of them was bound to get it right. And, lucky for us, we happen to find ourselves in this perfect universe.” Faith raised her eyebrows. “But science admits it has no way to prove the existence of other universes. So both explanations rely on faith. Given this, why is a creator any more absurd than infinite universes? A creator may not be the answer, but science’s answer isn’t really any better.

yourselves on the backs for not using torture. I use torture and pat myself on the back for saving lives.

In an instant I was in her arms, her lips against my cheek. I cupped her face in my hands and stared into those eyes, dancing eyes, warm and smiling, filled with tears and love, a combination I couldn’t lose, couldn’t walk away from again. She pulled me inside and closed the door behind me, locking it. I tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come, and she put her finger to my lips to calm me. She turned with her shoulder blades against my chest and drew my arms around her, holding the backs of my hands in her palms. Placing my palms just under her collarbone, she ran my hands down her body. As they passed over her breasts, I could tell they were larger, full and tight, swollen with fluid, and she gasped slightly as I touched her nipples. I closed my eyes, resting my chin on her shoulder, and she continued downward. They moved under her breasts, and I lifted up slightly, feeling their weight, the heaviness, wondering how tired her shoulders were at the end of the day, reminding myself to give her a good backrub. She turned my wrists and drew my hands downward. They immediately began to move forward, over the place where her slim waist used to be, out farther and farther, until they stopped even with her navel. Her skin under the cotton dress was tight, and I spread my fingers wide, taking in the size of her tummy, the width, the depth, moving around it like gripping a basketball. And then it happened. It kicked, a good, hard kick. I could feel it rolling around inside her, stretching and moving, moving deep in her as I had just a few months before on that first night, asking her how it felt to carry a child inside her. I remembered, and she was right. It did feel the very same. My moving inside her had created this movement, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out, from shouting, from wailing in joy as I’d heard her wail in sorrow. She pivoted in my arms and stared into my face, her eyes sad, pain an inch thick over her expression. “Steve, I wanted to tell you, really I did. I wanted to tell you about the baby. And I wanted to tell you about . . .” I put my hand up to quiet her. “I knew, Diana. I already knew.” She looked at me, puzzled. I drew her over to the sofa and sat down beside her. “Remember when we first met?” She nodded. “Well, I lied. The real reason we were here was to look for Nick Roberts.” She was still, quiet, waiting for the rest of the explanation. “When I first came here, I was looking for Nick Roberts. Before I left here the first time, I knew you’d written that book. But I didn’t say anything because by that time I didn’t care. I came to find Nick Roberts. What I found was a beautiful woman, the love of my life. Nick Roberts and anything associated with Nick Roberts just didn’t matter anymore.” “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” she asked, looking down at her hands, unable to meet my eyes. “Because. Because it didn’t matter. Because I knew I’d have to explain to you why I was here in the first place. Because I was afraid you’d be afraid, afraid I was just playing you, afraid I’d expose you and give you up to the media. But I didn’t, I swear to god. It wasn’t me.

Minnesoda.

When Hall read the minds of younger generations, these often proved to be the most alarming of all. Many of their thoughts were increasingly scattered, selfish, judgmental, and inflexible. They tended to see everyone as being either a victim or an oppressor. Many seemed to have an insatiable, repulsive need for social acceptance at all costs. These generations had become more and more narcissistic, neurotic, lazy, and confused, and dependence on the web had turned their minds into lightning rods for brainwashers.

What did you do on your Christmas break, dear?" Wren mocked in a high thin voice. "Oh just fought an evil mist with salt. No biggie. No one's going to believe this shit! No wonder Nick ended up in a nuthouse." "Yeah, and we're just getting started," Trevor said, pointing at the last of the mist that was exiting the room, leaving the floor clear of its remnants except for that which was trapped in the circle of salt. "We've still got to get that box closed and sealed up so it can't do any more harm. Then figure out how to stop what's out there," he said pointing at the door. Outside they could hear more screams and cries for help mixed in with the sounds of men and horses and dogs and weaponry clashing. As if on cue, another row of symbols rotated about forty-five degrees in the opposite direction from the row above it. The other two rows moved at the same time, each in opposite directions, opening the gaps in the box sides more. "Uhh, Trev, didn't you and Jax mention that some of those really large paintings down in the great hall were of some of your family's enemy clans?