For Kirsti, the soldiers were simply part of the landscape, something.

It wasn't a practical thing, so it became obsolete when we went to Sameness.

But they don't want change. Life here is so orderly, so predictable-so painless. It's what they've chosen.

We're required to learn to swim but we're not allowed in the river, she found herself telling him.

There will always be a place for bunnies to talk in rhyme, but that's not what I do.

I would say that most of my books are contemporary realistic fiction... a couple, maybe three, fall into the 'historic fiction' category. Science fiction is not a favorite genre of mine, though I have greatly enjoyed some of the work of Ursula LeGuin. I haven't read much science fiction so I don't know other sci-fi authors.

It was the helplessness that scared the both of us.

The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.

Jonas thought of his favorite female, Fiona, and shivered. He wouldn't want his gentle friend to suffer the way he had, taking on the memories.

He saw all of the light and colour and history it contained and carried in its slow-moving water; and he knew that there was an Elsewhere from which it came, and an Elsewhere to which it was going.

He thrust his tongue into his cheek, wrinkled his nose and creased his forehead. He made a chortling sound.

The next morning, for the first time, Jonas did not take his pill. Something within him, something that had grown there through the memories, told him to throw the pill away.

What words could you use which would give another the experience of sunshine?

Walter cares more about what a book has to say than he does about whether he can turn it into a stuffed animal or a calendar or a movie.

One hopes that with a book or movie, the reader or the audience will emerge from it thinking. That's the most you can hope for: that you've raised questions that will be there for the audience to think about later.

Jonas, listening, thought suddenly about the bridge and how, standing there, he had wondered what lay Elsewhere. Was there someone there, waiting, who would receive the tiny released twin? Would it grow up Elsewhere, not knowing, ever, that in this community lives a being who looked exactly the same?

All of it-all the things they had thought through so meticulously- fell apart.

It wasn't the same. I'm pretty good at making the best of things, but it wasn't the same.

I knew that there had been times in the past-terrible times-when people had destroyed others in haste,in fear, and had brought about their own destruction.

IGNOMINIOUS means shamefully weak and ineffective. Oliver Twist saying, Please sir, might I have some more? would be ignominious, except that he isn't shameful, just sort of pathetic. This book has ignominious illustrations. They are shamefully weak because the person who drew them is not an artist.

If you were to be lost in the river, Jonas, your memories would not be lost with you. Memories are forever.

Most people remember being 4 objectively, as if they're seeing a movie of a 4-year-old. But me, if you ask me to think about when I'm 4, I can feel myself being 4, and I am there, looking out through my 4-year-old eyes.

We thank you for your childhood.

Jonas looked at her. She was so lovely. For a fleeting instant he thought he would like nothing better than to ride peacefully along the river path, laughing and talking with his gentle female friend. But he knew such times had been taken from him now.

And they are beginning to realize that the world they live in is a place where the right thing is often hard, sometimes dangerous, and frequently unpopular.

It's the choosing that's important, isn't it?

If we as writers could predict what readers grab on to, we would write it.

I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.

People can lie in letters, but they tend not to. They certainly lie in memoirs.

The community of the Giver had achieved at such great price. A community without danger or pain. But also, a community without music, color or art. And books.

We relinquished color when we relinquished sunshine and did away with differences. {...} We gained control of many things. But we had to let go of others.

JONAS DID NOT want to go back. He didn't want the memories, didn't want the honor, didn't want the wisdom, didn't want the pain. He wanted his childhood again, his scraped knees and ball games.

He knew that there was no quick comfort for emotions like those. They were deeper and they did not need to be told. They were felt.

Now he became aware of an entirely new sensation: pinpricks? No, because they were soft and without pain. Tiny, cold, featherlike feelings peppered his body and face. He put out his tongue again, and caught one of the dots of cold upon it. It disappeared from his awareness instantly; but he caught another, and another. The sensation made him smile.

I'm trying to ruin it!" Will had bellowed back. "So I can figure out how to do it perfectly! How can you learn anything if you won't take risks?

Nowadays it seems as though people sit down to write what they know is going to be a trilogy.

What if others-adults-had, upon becoming Twelves, received in their instructions the same terrifying sentence? What if they had all been instructed: You may lie?

Frequently the new ones were damaged. They hobbled on canes or were ill. Sometimes they were disfigured by wounds or simply because they had been born that way. Some were orphans. All of them were welcomed.

Well, things change. I just have to learn to adjust to what they change to. One.

My mind is always on whatever next project I'm working on.

That day had changed him. It had changed the entire village. Shaken by the death of a boy they had loved, each person had found ways to be more worthy of the sacrifice he had made. They had become kinder, more careful, more attentive to one another.

What if they were allowed to choose their own mate? And chose wrong? Or what if, he went on, almost laughing at the absurdity, they chose their own jobs? Frightening, isn't it? The Giver said. Jonas chuckled. Very frightening.

There were only two occasions of release which were not punishment. Release of the elderly, which was a time of celebration for a life well and fully lived; and release of a newchild, which always brought a sense of what-could-we-have-done.

I have a wonderful idea. Maybe when you become a Twelve, they'll give you the Assignment of Storyteller!

Any Danish citizen would die for King Christian, to protect him.

There was just a moment when things weren't quite the same, weren't quite as they had always been through the long friendship.

But his mother laughed again in a reassuring, affectionate way. No, no, she said. It's just the pills. You're ready for the pills, that's all. That's the treatment for Stirrings.

Why do some of us turn menacing?' she whispered.

So many of my books, I don't want to say they have messages, but they have important things to say.