Divergent (Divergent, #1)

by Veronica Roth

My father says that those who want power and get it live in terror of losing it. That’s why we have to give power to those who do not want it.

Mom used to say that politeness is deception in pretty packaging.”

Something about him makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames.

Such a great quote!!!

I am aware of how little space there is between us—six inches at most. That space feels charged with electricity. I feel like it should be smaller.

I believe in ordinary acts of bravery, in the courage that drives one person to stand up for another.

My heart beats so hard it hurts, and I can’t scream and I can’t breathe, but I also feel everything, every vein and every fiber, every bone and every nerve, all awake and buzzing in my body as if charged with electricity. I am pure adrenaline.

“And are you over that fear now?” “Not yet.” We reach the door to the dormitory, and he leans against the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I may never be.” “So they don’t go away?” “Sometimes they do. And sometimes new fears replace them.” His thumbs hook around his belt loops. “But becoming fearless isn’t the point. That’s impossible. It’s learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it, that’s the point.”

Peace is restrained; this is free.

I stare at him. I feel my heartbeat everywhere, even in my toes.

I reach out and take his hand. His fingers slide between mine. I can’t breathe.

Sometimes I see him as just another person, and sometimes I feel the sight of him in my gut, like a deep ache.

My stomach writhes, partly because I know he makes a good point but I don’t want to admit it, and partly because I want something I don’t know how to express; I want to press against the space between us until it disappears.

His eyes glint. They look almost predatory. “Ruin them.”

He is not sweet or gentle or particularly kind. But he is smart and brave, and even though he saved me, he treated me like I was strong.

I tie my hair in a knot at the back of my head. The door opens and Four walks in, a towel in hand and his hair glistening with shower water. I feel a thrill in my stomach when I see the line of skin that shows above his belt as he lifts his hand to dry his hair and force my eyes up to his face.

Somewhere inside me is a merciful, forgiving person. Somewhere there is a girl who tries to understand what people are going through, who accepts that people do evil things and that desperation leads them to darker places than they ever imagined.

That is death—shifting from “is” to “was.”

Christina tousling Will’s hair and Will jabbing her in the ribs. For a second, I watch them. I feel like I am witnessing the beginning of something, but I’m not sure what it will be.

Obediently, he slips both arms around my waist. I smile at the wall. I am not enjoying this. I am not, not even a little bit, no.

“Well.” My throat is dry. I try to ignore the nervous electricity that pulses through me every second he touches me. “It’s easy to be brave when they’re not my fears.”

He grins and presses his mouth to mine. I tense up at first, unsure of myself, so when he pulls away, I’m sure I did something wrong, or badly. But he takes my face in his hands, his fingers strong against my skin, and kisses me again, firmer this time, more certain. I wrap an arm around him, sliding my hand up his neck and into his short hair. For a few minutes we kiss, deep in the chasm, with the roar of water all around us. And when we rise, hand in hand, I realize that if we had both chosen differently, we might have ended up doing the same thing, in a safer place, in gray clothes instead of black ones.

He tilts his head and kisses the skin just beneath my jaw. I’m glad the air is so loud he can’t hear me sigh.

He told me once to be brave, and though I have stood still while knives spun toward my face and jumped off a roof, I never thought I would need bravery in the small moments of my life.

When he touches me, I feel like everywhere his skin meets mine is changed by the connection.

We kiss again, and this time, it feels familiar. I know exactly how we fit together, his arm around my waist, my hands on his chest, the pressure of his lips on mine. We have each other memorized.

Human beings as a whole cannot be good for long before the bad creeps back in and poisons us again.”

“They died for me,” I say. That feels important. “They loved you,” he replies. “To them there was no better way to show you.”

“You nearly died today,” he says. “I almost shot you. Why didn’t you shoot me, Tris?” “I couldn’t do that,” I say. “It would have been like shooting myself.”

“I might be in love with you.” He smiles a little. “I’m waiting until I’m sure to tell you, though.”

I do not know what life will be like, separated from a faction—it feels disengaged, like a leaf divided from the tree that gives it sustenance.

I have no home, no path, and no certainty.

“They each have an equal role in government; they each feel equally responsible. And it makes them care; it makes them kind. I think that’s beautiful.”