Quotes About Communication

You can't say everything, so you don't say nothing.

Ow, Todd? Ow?

And she says, "Then let's just take the effing road and get ourselves to Haven." I smile, a little. "You said effing ," I say. "You actually said the word effing .

I feel like I'm way down this deep, deep hole and I'm looking up and all there is is this little dot of light and I have to shout at the top of my lungs for anyone to hear me and even when I do, I say the wrong thing or they don't really listen or they're just humouring me.

You notice that he does not ask, Where am I?" says the Mayor's voice, moving out there, somewhere. "His first words are, Where is she? And his Noise says the same. Interesting.

You must speak the truth and you must speak it now , Conor O'Malley. Say it. You must. Conor shook his head again, his mouth clamped shut tight, but he could feel a burning in his chest, like a fire someone had lit there, a miniature sun, blazing away and burning him from the inside. "It'll kill me if I do," he gasped. It will kill you if you do not, the monster said. You must say it.

Except I didn't say eff

And you," he says, "you need to talk to your boy." He lifts my chin. "And if he needs saving, then you save him. Isn't that what you told me you did for each other?" I let go a few more tears but then I nod. "Over and over again.

We're each other's questions, aren't we? The question that never gets an answer.

If you're too specific, people will purposely mishear you so they can be outraged about whatever thing that usually outrages them.

You're as old as the land and you've never heard of sarcasm?" Conor asked. Oh, I have heard of it, the monster said, putting its huge branch hands on its hips. But people usually know better than to speak it to me.

I don't know how much time passes with us just lying there, just feeling that the other is really there, really true, really alive, feeling the safety of him, his weight against mine, the roughness of his fingers touching my face, his warmth and his smell and the dustiness of his clothes, and we barely speak...

And right on cue, Viola yells, " TODD! " And I hit him with everything I got - Every bit of her behind me - Every piece of anger and frustrayshun and nothingness - Every moment I didn't see her - Every moment I worried - Everything - Every little tiny thing I know about her - I send it right into the center of him - VIOLA

She looks at me. She does. She.

Her accent's funny, different from mine, different from anyone in Prentisstown's. Her lips make different kinds of outlines for the letters, like they're swooping down on them from above, pushing them into shape, telling them what to say. In Prentisstown, everyone talks like they're sneaking up on their words, ready to club them from behind.

It is not what I want from you, Conor O'Malley, it said. It is what you want from me . "I don't want anything from you," Conor said. Not yet, said the monster. But you will.

What else is there to say?Everything and nothing. You can't say everything, so you don't say nothing.

Poo" Manchee barks quielty to himself. "Poo, poo, poo." "Just have yer stupid poo and quit yapping about it.

And I look right into his eyes, right into him as far as I can see, because I want him to hear me, I want him to hear me with everything I mean and feel and say.

The wind picks up a little more (Terribly sorry, I imagine it saying; apparently, the wind is British, wondering how it got all the way over here)

His last word had been my name. The last word he heard was me speaking his own. Did this mean anything? And if it only meant something for the two of us, did that reduce it?

I feel like I'm at the bottom of a well. I feel like I'm way down this deep, deep hole and I'm looking up and all there is is this little dot of light and I have to shout at the top of my lungs for anyone to hear me and even when I do, I say the wrong thing or they don't really listen or they're just humouring me.

I'll ask ye this once," the woman says, lifting the rifle again. "Am I gonna need this?" I exchange a glance with Viola. "No," I say. "No, mam," Viola says. Mam? I think. "It's like sir, bonny boy." The woman slings the rifle over her shoulder by its strap. "For if yer a-talking to a lady.

Give him numbers, he's great. Give him words and sentences to put together and his forehead creases down so you can see exactly what he'll look like when he's eighty.