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So You Want to Be President?

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Judith St. George

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“Here's why I will be a good person. Because I listen. I cannot speak, so I listen very well. I never interrupt, I never deflect the course of the conversation with a comment of my own. People, if you pay attention to them, change the direction of one another's conversations constantly. It's like having a passenger in your car who suddenly grabs the steering wheel and turns you down a side street. For instance, if we met a party and I wanted to tell you a story about the time I needed to get a soccer ball in my neighbor's yard but his dog chased me and I had to jump into a swimming pool to escape, and I began telling the story , you, upon hearing the words 'soccer' and 'neighbor' in the same sentence, might interrupt and mention that your childhood neighbor was Pele, the famous soccer player, and I might be courteous and say, Didn't he play for the Cosmos of New York? Did you grow up in New York? And you might reply that no, you grew up in Brazil on the streets of Tres Coracoes with Pele and I might say, I thought you were from Tennessee, and you might say, not originally, and then go on to outline your genealogy at length. So my initial conversational gambit - that I had a funny story about being chased by my neighbor's dog - would be totally lost, and only because you had to tell me all about Pele. Learn to listen! I beg of you. Pretend you are a dog like me and listen to other people rather than steal their stories.”

The Art Of Racing In The Rain
Author:Garth Stein
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“The Housefly I’m just a little pesky thing, Flying to eke out a living. So round and round and round I hiss, And fill the air with busy bliss. Of hand and swatter steering clear, I venture to light on crumbs and beer. In salad days I was a Grecian king. War and famine make me sing. How much they’d like to whack me flat, With a newspaper or even a baseball bat. Splat!”

BostonUlyssesDedalusLentzBloomsday
Book:Bloomsday: A Tragicomedy
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“You are my people. Whether my grandmother decrees it or not, you are my people, and always will be. But I will fly against you, if need be, to ensure that there is a future for those who cannot fight for it themselves. Too long have we preyed on the weak, relished doing so. It is time that we became better than our foremothers." The words she had given the Thirteen months ago. "There is a better world out there," she said again. "And I will fight for it." She turned Abraxos away, toward the plunge behind them. "Will you?”

Kingdom Of AshManon BlackbeakThe ThirteenAbraxos
Book:Kingdom of Ash
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“Elide saw the sorrow on her face before she reached her. The dullness and pain in the golden eyes. She went still. "Who?" Manon's throat bobbed. "All." All of the Thirteen. All those fierce, brilliant witches. Gone. Elide put a hand to her heart, as if it could stop it from cracking. But Manon closed the distance between them, and even with that grief in her battered, bloodied face, she put a hand on Elide's shoulder. In comfort. As if the witch had learned to do such things.”

Manon BlackbeakThe ThirteenElide Lochan
Book:Kingdom of Ash
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“Behind her, had she looked, she would have seen Glennis. And Bronwen. Petrah Blueblood. Aedion Ashryver and Lysandra and Ren Allsbrook. Prince Galan and Captain Rolfe and Ansel of Briarcliff, Ilias and the Fae royals beside them. Had she looked, she would have seen the small white flowers they bore. Would have wondered how and where they had gotten them in the dead heart of winter. Had she looked, she would have seen the people gathered behind them, so many they streamed all the way to the city gates. Would have seen the humans standing side by side with the Crochans and Ironteeth. All come to honor the Thirteen.”

FuneralThe Thirteen
Book:Kingdom of Ash
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“Förresten hade pappan börjat tänka på ett alldeles nytt sätt. Mer och mer sällan funderade han över allt han hade varit med om under sitt vänliga och brokiga liv, och lika sällan drömde han om vad alla de kommande dagarna skulle ge honom. Hans tankar gled som båten, utan minnen och drömmar, de var som gråa vandrande vågor som inte ens hade lust att komma fram till horisonten. Pappan försökte inte prata med hatifnattarna längre. Han stirrade ut över havet som de, hans ögon hade blivit bleka som deras och lånade himlens växlande färg. Och när nya öar kom emot dem rörde han sig inte, bara svansen slog några slag mot durken. Jag undrar, tänkte pappan en gång när de glöd framåt i en lång trött dyning, jag undrar om jag inte håller på att börja likna en hatifnatt.”

HatifnattarMuminpappan
Book:Det osynliga barnet
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