Quote From The Notebook What Do You Want Novels & Stories

she sniffs. James´ brow furrows. "That´s a quote, isn´t it?" Her eyes slide up to his, "Yes Master, it is." He looks out of the window, scratching the bridge of his nose. "I know the reference, but for the life of me, I can´t think where from." She stares at him. "It´s from ´The Notebooks of Lazarus Long.´ taken from Heinlein´s ´Time Enough for Love´." He still looks puzzled. "That´s an old nineteen-seventies science fiction novel, isn´t it? I don´t think I´ve ever read it. Why would I know the quote?"

I sit with my hands flat on the table and I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, and I count the breaths the way I have counted the crossings of the Storm Corridor, the way I count everything in this house because counting is the only thing they cannot take from me. "Then you do not need me to read it," I say. "I am asking you to read it to me because I want to hear your voice say it." His register does not shift. He does not lean forward or soften his tone or do any of the things a man might do to make a request sound like a choice. He states it as a fact. The oil is from 1983. The notebook is in my quarters. He has read every page. He wants to hear my voice.

Like the room itself didn’t want me getting closer. The notebook sat perfectly still beneath the dim light. Waiting. I reached for it slowly. My hands trembled badly now. When I touched the cover— Another flash hit me. My own handwriting. Fast. Panicked. Writing over and over across paper: DON’T TRUST THE MEMORIES. DON’T GO BACK. IF YOU FORGET AGAIN— RUN. The vision vanished instantly. I jerked backward sharply. The notebook slipped from my hands and hit the floor. Pages spilled open. And there—

“It shifts the measure of a life.” She looked over at him. “We were never trying to be permanent.” “No,” he agreed. “We were trying to be permeable.” She smiled. “Let it pass through. Let it become.” --- 11:44 PM — Bedroom The notebook rested on her lap. The one they had decided not to include in the official canon. Its cover said: Notes for After. In it were pieces. Questions that they had not solved. Phrases too gentle to be clauses. Such as:

“He can’t say directly, but he won’t stop you either. It’s up to you, Miss Toth. I’m sorry—this is how I’m programmed.” Her apology sounded almost human. I wanted answers more than anything, but the notebook sat between us like a door I could open or keep closed. I set the pen to paper and began to write—questions, fear, the small, raw memories of Zebasthian—letting the ink hold what my voice could not. While Lyra sat quietly beside me, I read and wrote down what I could from the notes in that old book.

Elise followed Lucian, entered the den and found him still staring blankly at the miscarriage report. Lucian was silent for a long time before nodding. He put the miscarriage report in a delicate photo frame and then he engraved it with the words "Beloved Pup of Lucian and Alice." He held the box and touched the words on it. "Sorry, I am so sorry." Elise stood aside, her wolf eyes full of disgust and impatience, but when Lucian looked over, she quickly put on a grief-stricken expression, "The pup is so poor."

Complete. Forever. ~~~~~~ Guys, don't leave without reading the last note. It is important 😊

Bigla niyang binuksan ang bag n'ya at inilabas ang isang notebook. "Alam mo ba na ang notebook na ito ay naglalaman ng Dying List ko? At isa dito ay ang makakilala ng isang stranger na pag-sasabihin ko ng totoo kong kalagayan. Oh diba? Ikaw na 'yun! Akala ko naman mahihirapan ako dito." masaya niyang sabi na nagsimulang buksan ang kaniyang notebook at may isinulat dito.

And I don’t even have a pool. The End

He tapped the pen against the notebook again, then added beneath it: PEOPLE SAY THAT A LOT. "Well, it’s not a bad thing," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Makes you seem… I don’t know. More grounded." His brow furrowed slightly at that, like he wasn’t sure whether to take it as a compliment or a strange observation. He didn’t reply this time, just slid the notebook back toward me so I could see the last line he’d added in smaller, neater handwriting. DOES AGE MATTER TO YOU?