The Book Jumper Quotes

Lucky Luke: I wonder how you manage to read with everything that's going on. Jolly Jumper: By turning the pages just like everyone else.

It was full of whispered words, the lure of stories waiting to be read, a rustle of promise that hung in the air. How many adventures were hidden here in paper and ink, how many great love stories, how many epic battles?

His lips tasted of words. Of hundreds, thousands, millions of words and the stories hidden inside them. And they tasted of salt, like the sea below us.

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.

Often, when I have been feeling lonely, when a book as been thrust aside in boredom [...] I have lain back and stared at the shadows on the ceiling, wondering what life is all about [...] and then, suddenly, there is the echo of the swinging door, and across the carpet, walking with the utmost delicacy and precision, stalks Four or Five or Oscar. He sits down on the floor beside me, regarding my long legs, my old jumper, and my floppy arms, with a purely practical interest. Which part of this large male body will form the most appropriate lap? Usually he settles for the chest. Whereupon he springs up and there is a feeling of cold fur [...] and the tip of an icy nose, thrust against my wrist and a positive tattoo of purrs. And I no longer wonder what life is all about.

With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word 'intellectual,' of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally ‘bright,’ did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn’t it this bright boy you selected and tortured after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves again. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me?

Clotheswise I’d packed only what was strictly necessary. The way I saw it, it was better to take one less cardigan than have to do without one of my favorite books.

This is the crux of being a Creative Mother. It is more than how many jumpers you have knitted, or having an exhibition in a fancy gallery, or a bookshelf of your own books. It is about the act of living authentically whilst honoring your mother self and creative self. About saying yes to life, every part of your life, and finding how to weave them all together.

However stupid it was, there was a sore spot in my soul, a tiny hole through which my self-esteem was trickling away.

Excerpt: Here are some thoughts from Charlene the Star: “I’ll bet that’s why Mama put the word “Star” in my name. I have a feeling I’m going to be a star as a jumper.

Things it helps me to remember When in a bad mood, keep quiet or still. Baggy jumpers don’t suit you. When you’re tired you get doubtful. Difficulties come in spurts. Listen to the echo of your own voice. Avoid be strident. All aeroplanes go through clouds during their journeys. So do people during theirs. Often greater clarity comes out of confusion. You have to be puzzled before you find a solution. PMS often brings on a crisis of confidence. Ordinariness is restful. If someone is explosive in front of you, be silent. If you feel explosive, be silent.

With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers and imaginative creators, the word 'intellectual' of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally 'bright,' did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn't it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of a well-read man? Me? I won't stomach them for a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world [...] there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior: official censors, judges and executors.

It felt as though the while globe was dressed in snow. Like it had pulled it on, the way you pull on a jumper.

But now it seemed she preferred to fit in with everyone else than keep hanging out with me - the geek, the bookworm, the nerd.

What more easily explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word ‘intellectual,’ of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally ‘bright,’ did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn’t it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man’s mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man?

What’s a mainstream millennial?’ Darcy asked. ‘Have I made this term up?’ I questioned myself. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen it on the internet. You know those men: bike-riding, knitted jumper, loves Jeremy Corbyn? Pretends Facebook isn’t important to them but it really is?’ I was met with a blank stare, so carried on. ‘Craft beer, start-ups, sense of entitlement? Reads books by Alain de Botton, needs a girlfriend who doesn’t threaten their mediocrity?

I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can’t make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don’t think, I’ll tell you. I don’t think what you think. I don’t think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I’m a democrat, and I still don’t believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn’t.

She brought the tea into the living room on a lacquered tray. The pot and cups were Japanese with unglazed rims. She poured. "Thanks," I said. "Well?" "Huh?" "Your family," she reminded. I sipped the tea. "This is really good. Really delicious." She raised her eyebrows. "That's what I thought. You're a good listener, Davy, and you can change the subject on a dime. You've hardly talked about yourself at all." "I talk... too much." "You talk about books, you talk about plays, you talk about movies, you talk about places, you talk about food, you talk about current events. You don't talk about yourself." I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I hadn't really thought about it. Sure, I didn't talk  about the jumping, but the rest? "Well, there's not much to say. Not like those stories of growing up with four brothers." She smiled. "It's not going to work. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I'm not going to be distracted again, nor fooled into talking about those idiots again." She poured more tea into my cup. I frowned. "Do I really do that?" "What? Not talk about yourself? Yes." "No, try and distract you." She stared at me. "You are fucking amazing. I've never seen someone so good at changing the subject." "I don't do it on purpose." She laughed. 

And so our tutorials descended, from the metaphysical to the merely physical... not so much down to earth as down to the carpet, do you remember? That was the year of 'The Concept of Knowledge', your masterpiece, and the last decent title left after Ryle bagged 'The Concept of Mind' and Archie bagged 'The Problem of Mind' and Ayer bagged 'The Problem of Knowledge' - and 'The Concept of Knowledge' might have made you if you had written it, but we were still on the carpet when an American with an Italian name working in Melbourne bagged it for a rather bad book which sold four copies in London, three to unknown purchasers and the fourth to yourself. He'd stolen a march while you were still comparing knowledge in the sense of having-experience-of, with knowledge in the sense of being-acquainted-with, and knowledge in the sense of inferring facts with knowledge in the sense of comprehending truths, and all the time as you got more and more acquainted with, though no more comprehending of, the symbolic patterns on my Persian carpet, it was knowing in the biblical sense of screwing that you were learning about and maybe there's a book in you yet

Yes, but what about the firemen, then?” asked Montag. “Ah.” Beatty leaned forward in the faint mist of smoke from his pipe. “What more easily explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word ‘intellectual,’ of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally ‘bright,’ did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn’t it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man’s mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me? I won’t stomach them for a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world (you were correct in your assumption the other night) there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That’s you, Montag, and that’s me.

Writing is like knitting. Stitch after stitch, word by word, and before you know it you have a book ... or a jumper!

What’s the big deal—you’ve read it, haven’t you?” Then he’d take them down to the used-book store and sell them for peanuts. He never got anything close to what they were worth. He didn’t like them cluttering up the house, or even my room. They weren’t going to get my books.

mouth rendered decorative by a shade of lipstick which was new to Ione. For the rest, a plain dark skirt and jumper. As the talk about the tea-table went on, Ione began to adjust herself. There was no fault to be found in Jacqueline Delauny’s manner. She was pleasant, with just the right amount to say for herself, and she really appeared to exercise a tactful influence upon Margot Trent. If it had not been for Allegra, sitting there like her own ghost with no more to say than an occasional yes or no to a question too direct to be ignored, Ione would have found it all agreeable enough. As it was, she possessed her soul in patience against the moment when they would be alone. Allegra could hardly avoid taking her to her room or going up with her when she went to bed. She did not realise until afterwards that she had used the word avoid — not in fact until she was herself alone in her bedroom after the last good-night had been said.

To the jumpers overhearing the conversation it was obvious—Troop had come down with another case of dragon fever. The Don Quixote of smokejumping was once again engaged in mortal combat with this, his latest windmill.

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.

Giannis Antetokounmpo was born in Athens, Greece on December 6, 1994, to Charles and Veronica Antetokounmpo, who migrated from Nigeria all the way to Greece. Charles was a former soccer player while Veronica was a high-jumper. However, both Charles and Veronica were illegal immigrants to Greece. As such, Giannis and two of his other brothers, who were also born in Greece, had no citizenship and were neither Nigerian nor Greek.

As a woman, she knew perfectly well what it was like to be able to see what others could not, but then be completely ignored when she tried to point it out.

fruitless exhortation to Mr H not

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We want Next Jump to be a company that our mothers and fathers would be proud of us for building,” says Kim. And a large part of making our parents proud comes in the form of being a good person and doing the right thing. And so he implemented a policy of Lifetime Employment. Next Jump might be the only tech company in the country to do such a thing. No one will get fired to balance the books. And even costly mistakes or poor individual performance are not grounds for dismissal. If anything, the company will spend the time to help figure out what the problem is and help its people overcome it. Like an athlete who goes through a slump, a Next Jumper doesn’t get fired, they get coached. About the only situation in which an employee would be asked to leave is if someone worked outside the company’s high moral values or if someone actively worked to undermine their colleagues.

I go downstairs to my bedroom and get out my diary from where I’ve hidden it in the wardrobe under my jumpers. I write, ‘My mother has a secret.

And now she must continue the day as if the strange dream hadn’t picked up her life and shaken it upside down like a snow globe, dislodging everything that wasn’t glued down." The Dream Jumper's Promise

The soul is not where it lives, but where it loves.—Anonymous

Julia, it was so much fun!” she exclaimed, the excitement in her voice evident. “They have the nicest property! And their jumping course is amazing!! I watched Charlie jump Milo over some really high jumps. He is such a brilliant jumper. Charlie said that they’re going to go to show jumping classes as well as pony club. Apparently they’re held at the show grounds in town every second week and its perfect because they’re on the alternative week that pony club is held. I talked to my parents and they said they’re happy for me to go!” Julia prattled on excitedly,

TOOLBOX   B - Bulbs, Batteries. D - Duct tape, Drills. E - Electrical tester. F - Fuses, Fan belt (spare). G - Glues (super, fabric, threadlock, multipurpose) H - Hammers. J - Jacks, Jumper leads. K - Knives (box and pocket). L - Level (spirit). M - Marker pen, Mallet. O - Oils (Engine and lubricating) P

What are you doing?” Demos’s eyes followed me. “There never seems to be enough time to explore the libraries.” Demos’s eyebrow rose. “Did you hit your head?” “I’m serious.” I sighed. “We have this gift to transport ourselves to any library anywhere in the world. It’s amazing, but we never get to enjoy it, to just sit in one and read books written ages ago.

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

Tu n'es pas qu'un simple présage." J'étais certes l'Enfant de l'Apocalypse, annonciateur de la fin des temps, mais il n'appartenait qu'à moi de renverser la situation.

After the season, I applied for a position with the North Cascades smoke jumpers in Washington State and got a new tattoo on my left forearm, a tattoo of my life, with the motto “Mundis Ex Igne Factus Est,” which means “The World Is Made of Fire” in Latin, a quote from a Helprin book (A Soldier in the Great War) that I had read maybe five years earlier. It captured the idea that life is born of struggle and striving, that true joy and understanding do not come from comfort and safety; they come from epiphany born in exhaustion (and not exhaustion for its own sake). Safety and comfort are mortal danger to the soul.

He couldn’t help but think the Senator had been smart to place the most important items in hard-to-find places.  When the cavern was raided, the other prisoner groups would never stumble across them.

Sherlock Holmes had vanished without trace.

And everywhere you looked there were throngs of book characters, dressed in clothes from every era imaginable: a man in a toga surrounded by a gaggle of girls in dresses with enormous crinolines and ruffs, soldiers marching past them with laser guns, magicians in colorful hats, businesswomen in court shoes and trouser suits, orcs with grotesque misshapen faces. Fairies with dragonfly wings buzzed in and out of the crowd. A goose with a tiny boy riding on its back pecked at the instant happy endings, and was shooed away loudly by the fat lady. Then I spotted a tomcat wearing a pair of riding boots and walking on its hind legs, and followed it through the crowd until it disappeared into a pub called the Inkpot. Not really fancying the "ink cocktail" being advertised on a board outside, I decided to keep walking.

In the window of a chemist's shop was a sign advertising a cure for weak verbs, and a fat woman with a hawker's tray was shouting something about a miracle powder that could apparently be used to concoct a happy ending in a matter of minutes if you didn't happen to have one handy. On a market stall I spotted a tub of self-service periods and commas (there was a special offer on-- three quotation marks for the price of two). The shop next door had cloaks, swords, and wands on display. The sign above the door read Hero Outfitters -- from classical drama to science fiction epics. (We also cater to secondary characters).