Vampires In The Lemon Grove Quotes

There is a loneliness that must be particular to monsters, I think, the feeling that each is the only child of a species. And now that loneliness was over.

Forever, just the word fills Beverly with an unaccountable, schoolmarmish sort of rage. Forever, that's got to be bad math, right? Such terrifying math.

I wanted to touch the edges of my life - the same instinct, I think, that inspires young mortals to flip tractors and enlist in foreign wars.

Women revert to their maiden names in Heaven, Rutherford feels fairly certain. He can't remember where he learned this--France or the Bible.

It's strange to own anything, Beverly thinks, even your flesh, that nobody outside yourself ever touches or sees.

I stood with my arms stretched wide and trembling, and I felt as if the black sky was my body and I felt as if the white moon, far above me, unwrinkled and shining, was my mind.

I dropped the candies into the children's bags, thinking: You small mortals don't realize the power of your stories.

Samson had a knack for this kind of insight: he was like a grinning fisherman who could wrench a secret from the depths of your chest and dangle it in front of you, revealing it to be nothing but a common, mud–colored fish.

Many of the presidents have sworn themselves in to similarly foolish titles: Governor of Cow Pastures, Commanding General of Standing Chickens.

Beverly once read a science magazine article about bioluminescence, the natural glow emitted by organisms like fireflies and jellyfish, but she knows the dead also give off a strange illumination, a phosphor that can permanently damage the eyes of the living. Necroluminescence - the light of the vanished. A hindsight produced by the departed body. Your failings backlit by the death of your loved ones.

Dracula shows his fangs, and the Okie flees through a cornfield. Cornstalks smack her face. "Help!" she screams to a sky full of crows. "He's not actually from Europe!

I often think, that she foresaw only the end times, never hot dogs.

Still, I'm not convinced that you were right, Dai--that it's such a bad thing, a useless enterprise to reel and reel out my memory at night. Some part of me, the human part of me, is kept alive by this, I think. Like water flushing a wound, to prevent it from closing. I am a lucky one, like Chiyo says. I made a terrible mistake. In Gifu, in my raggedy clothes, I had an unreckonable power. I didn't know it at the time. But when I return to the stairwell now, I can feel them webbing around me: my choices, their infinite variety, spiraling out of my hands, my invisible thread. Regret is a pilgrimage back to the place where I was free to choose. It's become my sanctuary here in Nowhere Mill. A threshold where I still exist.

It's our suspicion that there's another, better Heaven behind the cumulus screen,' he murmurs into the grass, bending and tearing at a root that tastes beautifully yellow. 'That's the trouble. That's what keeps us trapped here, minds in animals.

What are you grinning at?' Nal muttered. As if in response, the gull spread its wings and opened its shadow over the miniature ruins of the castle - too huge, Nal thought, and vaguely humanoid in shape - and then it flew off, laboring heavily against the wind. In the soft moonlight this created the disturbing illusion that the bird had hitched itself to Nal's shadow and was pulling his darkness from him.

Uncle Fitzy!" the girl yells. "Gingersnap is being bad!" Eisenhower hates it when she calls him Gingersnap. He complains about it with a statesman's pomp: "Gentlemen, there exists no more odious appellation than"--nose crumpling, black lips curling-- "Gingersnap." From The Barn at the End of Our Term

Rule One: Make friends with death Tailgating in the Antarctic is no joke. We are trying to do nothing less ambitious than reverse the course of history. We want Team Krill to defeat Team Whale. Look, if you want to tailgate in comfort, don't get on the boat. You can buy some quail eggs or snails or whatever you people eat and you can watch the Food Chain Games on your flat TV. Stay in Los Angeles. Hug your wife on your plush banquette. Cheer for the Antarctic minke whales, like every other asshole. No, wait a second, here comes the real Rule One: if you are a supporter of Team Whale, you can go fuck yourself, my fine sir. This list is for the fans of Team Krill.

The horses have been trying to get hold of the girl’s schoolbooks for some time. Every president wants to find out how history regards him.

Don't look back, you asshole! he thought. Good advice, from Orpheus to Lot.

My mother is thirty-one years old, but the land out here paints old age onto her.

Help!” she screams to a sky full of crows. “He’s not actually from Europe!

If they heard Death mounting the stairs at night, footsteps that the teenage Beverly swore she could feel vibrating through the floorboards at three a.m., nobody mentioned this intrusion at breakfast.

The same spine that has been inside her since babyhood is hers today, the exact same bones from the womb, a thought that always fills her with a kind of thrilling claustrophobia. So much surface wrapped around that old stem. She watches her hands smear the water droplets on her stomach. It's strange to own anything, Beverly thinks, even your flesh, that nobody outside yourself ever touches or sees.

There are twenty-two stalls in the Barn. Eleven of the stabled horses are, as far as Rutherford can ascertain, former presidents of the United States of America. The other stalls are occupied by regular horses, who give the presidents suspicious, sidelong looks.

Often I wonder to what extent a mortal’s love grows from the bedrock of his or her foreknowledge of death, love coiling like a green stem out of that blankness in a way I’ll never quite understand. And lately I’ve been having a terrible thought: Our love affair will end before the world does.

The krill are in a rebuilding year. The krill are always in a rebuilding year. Every year the whole franchise of 60,000,000,000 krill gets eaten. Team Whale sucks Team Krill into the primordial combs of its baleen plates at twenty-eight knots. We’ve got a decent offense but we’ve got a pretty dismal record on defense. But this is going to be our season. With all your might, try to believe that.

But if it turns out that she really can adjust them from without? Reshuffle the deck of his past, leave a few cards out, sub in several from a sunnier suit, where was the harm in that? Harm had to be the opposite, didn’t it? Letting the earliest truth metastasize into something that might kill you? The gangrenous spread of one day throughout the life span of a body— wasn’t that something worth stopping?

Una volta Beverly ha letto un articolo di una rivista scientifica sulla bioluminescenza, il bagliore naturale emesso da organismi come le lucciole e le meduse, ma sa che anche i morti emanano una strana luce, un fosforo che può danneggiare in modo permanente gli occhi dei vivi. Necroluminescenza – la luce degli scomparsi. Un pensiero retrospettivo prodotto dal corpo del defunto. I tuoi fallimenti retroilluminati dalla morte dei tuoi cari.

A scuola, Camp Dark picchiava i ragazzini come un quartetto. Lo facevamo in un silenzio animale. Trascinavamo un ragazzino isterico dietro l'edificio di scienze in mattoni rossi - di solito qualcuno più piccolo, delle classi precedenti - e poi martellavamo e pompavamo i nostri pugni nel suo corpo che si dimenava graffiando e gridando, finché il ragazzino non si afflosciava come uno straccio. Sentivo quelle urla come se provenissero dalla mia stessa gola, e scoprii di non riuscire a rilassarmi finché non lo faceva il ragazzo. Avvertivo che c'era una qualche logica profonda da catena di montaggio in quello che facevamo: una volta che avevamo fatto urlare un ragazzino, eravamo obbligati a tappargli la bocca di nuovo. Pensavo a questo processo come ciò che chiamano "un male necessario". Eravamo come una squadra di operai che fabbricava una calma che non era disponibile in natura da nessuna parte, ad Anthem. Avevamo un disperato bisogno di questa quiete che solo le nostre vittime potevano produrre per noi, il silenzio che arrivava dopo un'aggressione; per la nostra amicizia era altrettanto vitale del respirare. Come il sangue per un vampiro. Ci inginocchiavamo lì, ansimando insieme, e lasciavamo che la bolla di quiete buona uscisse dal moccioso di turno per entrarci nei polmoni.

That summer Nal was fourteen and looking for excuses to have extreme feelings about himself.

Long before the kaiko change turned us into mirror images of one another, we were sisters already, spinning identical dreams in beds thousands of miles apart, fantasizing about gold silks and an “imperial vocation.

Women revert to their maiden names in Heaven, Rutherford feels fairly certain. He can’t remember where he learned this—France or the Bible.

Secret deals get brokered behind the Barn, just north of the red sloop of the bunny hutch. A number of the presidents are planning their escape for a day they are calling the Fourth of July.

Rutherford arches his neck toward her outstretched hand. Freckles of light float across his patchy hindquarters. He licks the girl’s palm according to a code that he’s worked out: - - - -, which means that he is Rutherford Birchard Hayes, the nineteenth president of the United States of America, and that she should alert the local officials. “Ha-ha!” the girl laughs. “That tickles.

Beverly pushes down and down and down into the muscles under his tattoo to release the knots.

(This idea appealed to me—I was a quiet kid myself, branded “mean,” and I liked the idea of a mouth that nobody expected anything from, a mouth that was just red sewing.)

We amassed a plastic weapons cache in the hollow of the oak that included the Sounds of Warfare Blazer, a toy gun that required sixteen triple-A batteries to make a noise like a tubercular guinea pig. Those

It occurred to me that, given the life span of a moth, one kid’s twitch must take a year to complete.

We didn’t talk about Eric Mutis, but the effort of not talking about him made our actual words feel like fizz, just a lot of speedy emptiness.

My father has the “settler’s scar,” a pink star scored into the brown leather of his palm by the handle of the moldboard plow.

The Sticksels have met every Homestead Act requirement save one, its final strangeness, what Pa calls “the wink in the bureaucrats’ wall”: a glass window.

their eyes flicking all over each other.

I blinked down at a little blond child and then saw that my two hands were shaking violently, soundlessly, like old friends wishing not to burden me with their troubles.

Often I wonder to what extent a mortal’s love grows from the bedrock of his or her foreknowledge of death, love coiling like a green stem out of that blankness in a way I’ll never quite understand.

What a shame, I often think, that she foresaw only the end times, never hot dogs.

Each body, Beverly believes, has a secret language candled inside it, something inexpressible bright that can be transmitted truly only via touch.

Necroluminescence--the light of the vanished. A hinnsight produced by the departed's body. Your failings backlit by the death of your loved ones.

There is a loneliness that must be particular to monsters, I think, the feeling that each is the only child of a species.

Nal had begun to sense that his life had jumped the rails—and then right at his nadir, he’d agreed to an “avant” haircut performed by Cousin Steve.

You can always put balsamic vinaigrette on salted meat and sort of pretend it’s a salad.

Lemons wink like a firmament of yellow stars, slowly ripening, and I can see the other, truer night behind them.

Necroluminescence--the light of the vanished. A hindsight produced by the departed's body. Your failings backlit by the death of your loved ones.

He felt incapable of spontaneous action: before he could do anything, a tiny homunculus had to generate a flowchart in his brain. If p, then q; If z, then back to a.

Back then we played actual games. We hid and we sought.

And then she grinned. Magreb was the first and only other vampire I'd ever met. We bared our fangs over a tombstone and recognized each other. There is a loneliness that must be particular to monsters, I think, the feeling that each is the only child of a species. And now that loneliness was over.

At the Hoho’s Family Restaurant, Beverly treats herself to peanut butter pancakes and world news.

Only one or two lemons tumble from the branches each hour, but I’ve been sitting here so long their falls seem contiguous, close as raindrops.

I dropped the candies into the children’s bags, thinking: You small mortals don’t realize the power of your stories.

with a little penguin huddle of moles just above her hip, looking lost on that Arctic shelf.

The sun is back at its original o’clock.

The game lasts twenty seconds, tops. You don't want to come all that way and miss the game.