The Giver (The Giver, #1)

by Lois Lowry

could, conceivably (though it was almost unimaginable), ask someone, some adult, his father perhaps: “Do you lie?” But he would have no way of knowing if the answer he received were true.

“I know it’s not important, what you wear. It doesn’t matter. But—” “It’s the choosing that’s important, isn’t it?”

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 sat in his dwelling alone, watching through the window, seeing children at play, citizens bicycling home from uneventful days at work, ordinary lives free of anguish because he had been selected, as others before him had, to bear their burden. But the choice was not his.

“I liked the feeling of love,” he confessed. He glanced nervously at the speaker on the wall, reassuring himself that no one was listening. “I wish we still had that,” he whispered.

“Do you understand why it’s inappropriate to use a word like ‘love’?” Mother asked. Jonas nodded. “Yes, thank you, I do,” he replied slowly. It was his first lie to his parents.

Jonas had experienced real sadness. He had felt grief. He knew that there was no quick comfort for emotions like those. These were deeper and they did not need to be told. They were felt. Today, he felt happiness.

“Music,” The Giver said, smiling. “I began to hear something truly remarkable, and it is called music. I’ll give you some before I go.”

The Giver had counted on, of strength and courage. So he relied on what he had, and hoped it would be enough.

If he had stayed, he would have starved in other ways. He would have lived a life hungry for feelings, for color, for love.

Suddenly he was aware with certainty and joy that below, ahead, they were waiting for him; and that they were waiting, too, for the baby. For the first time, he heard something that he knew to be music. He heard people singing.