Trophy Ii Quotes

I. Those of us born by water are never afraid enough of drowning. Bruises used to trophy my knees from my death-defying tree climb jumps. Growing up, my backyard was a forest of blackberry bushes. I learned early nothing sweet will come to you unthorned. II. At twelve your body becomes a currency. So Jenny and I sat down and cut up all our clothes into nothing. That year I failed math class but knew the exact number of calories in a carrot stick. I learned early being desired goes hand in hand with hunger. III. The last time I tried to scream I felt my father climbing up through my throat and into my mouth. IV. There is a certain kind of girl who reads Lolita at fourteen and finds religion. I painted my eyes black and sucked barroom cherries to red my tongue. There was a boy who promised Judas really did love Jesus. I learned early every kiss and betrayal are up for interpretation. V. I think he must have conferenced with my nightmares on exactly how to hurt me. VI. He never broke my heart. He only turned it into a compass that always points me back to him.

Historian Peter Vronsky hypothesizes that while several factors must align to make a murderer (genetics and frontal lobe injuries being two common ones), World War II was responsible for this golden age of serial killers a generation later. Specifically, according to Vronsky, while all American soldiers who fought in WWII were trained to kill, a small contingent used the cover of state-sanctioned violence to also rape, torture, and collect human body parts as trophies. Though most returning GIs successfully reintegrated into society, some brought the brutality of war into their homes, abusing their families behind closed doors. That abuse, occurring as it did in a culture openly promoting war, created the fertile ground from which the first major crop of American serial killers would spring.

Before Leonardo da Vinci painted The Last Supper, he saw the masterpiece in his mind. Before Winston Churchill led Britain during World War II, he envisioned winning the battle. Before Tiger Woods won his first championship, he saw himself holding the coveted trophy. There are times when God gives you a dream so distinctly that it changes the direction of your life.

The rubber quotas imposed on natives in this 15 percent of the territory were enforced by native soldiers working for the companies or for the EIC itself. In many areas, the rubber came with ease and the natives prospered. The rubber station at Irengi, for instance, was known for its bulging stores and hospitable locals, whose women spent a lot of time making bracelets and where “no one ever misses a meal,” noted the EIC soldier George Bricusse in his memoirs. Elsewhere, however, absent direct supervision, and with the difficulties of meeting quotas greater, some native soldiers engaged in abusive behavior to force the collection. Bricusse noted these areas as well, especially where locals had sabotaged rubber stations and then fled to the French Congo to the north. In rare cases, native soldiers kidnapped women or killed men to exact revenge. When they fell into skirmishes, they sometimes followed long-standing Arab and African traditions by cutting off the hands or feet of the fallen as trophies, or to show that the bullets they fired had been used in battle. How many locals died in these frays is unclear, but the confirmed cases might put the figure at about 10,000, a terrible number.

That’s right. You said you’re in a book club, but do you actually do the reading?” More chips go in my mouth. I like the idea of making her wait for my answers, especially when she seems so intent on hearing them. “Yeah. Of course I do the reading.” “Because you like books.” Why is she saying books like that? As if the sound of the word is turning her on—it’s so weird. And why is she leaning forward, with her boobs smushed into the edge of the table? Is she doing that on purpose? “Yes?” “What kind of books do you read when you’re not reading romance?” I hear her low chuckle over the sound of the mariachi band and the chatter of the people surrounding us. Brat. I rack my brain for the last book I’ve read that wasn’t a book club selection. “It was a World War II biography written by a fighter pilot whose plane went down. He lived in the jungle for a few months without any supplies, food, or weapons to keep him safe.” “Was it a thick book?” “Um. Yes?” She nods. Nods again, watching me as she takes a few more chips and breaks them into pieces. “Uh huh. Tell me more.” Okay, what the hell is going on right now? It looks like she’s turned on, but I know she can’t stand me, so is she having a hot flash? Or a seizure?