Mary E. Pearson (born August 14, 1955) is an American children's writer best known for young adult fiction.
I suppose you're right about some perspectives. Just a few weeks ago, I thought you were a dickhead.
My memory is coming back. It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.
I used to be someone.
I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.
Maybe we all have a dark place inside of us, a place where dark thoughts and darker dreams live, but it doesn't have to become who we are.
My timing is off. But I had to get it out. Some things you have to tell, no matter how stupid they may sound. Some things you can't save for later. There might not be a later.
It's other people who make us wise, and I haven't known nearly enough.
Escape is not about moving from one place to another. It's about becoming more.
Things I can feel. Hard. Soft. Rough. Smooth. But the inside kind of feel, it is all the same, like foggy mush. Is that the part of me that is still asleep? (9)
Sometimes there's not a better way. Sometimes there's only the hard way.
I don't want five hundred billion neural chips. I want guts.
I just think perfection and lasting through the ages is for Greek statues, not us mere humans.
Some things aren't meant to be known. Only believed.
But remember, child, we may all have our own story and destiny, and sometimes our seemingly bad fortune, but we're all part of a greater story too. One that transcends the soil, the wind, time even our own tears. Greater stories will have their way.
The information. Every bit that of information that was ever in your brain. But the information is not the mind Jenna. That we've never accomplished before. What we've done with you is groundbreaking. We cracked the code. The mind is an energy that the brain produces. Think of a glass ball twirling on your fingertip. If it falls, it shatters into a million pieces. All the parts of a ball are still there, but it will never twirl with that force on your fingertip again. The brain is the same way.
Awareness There is a dark place. A place where I have no eyes, no mouth. No words. I can't cry out because I have no breath. The silence is so deep I want to die. But I can't. The darkness and silence go on forever. It is not a dream. I don't dream.
It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.
One small changed family doesn't calculate into a world that has been spinning for a billion years. But one small change makes the world spin differently in a billion ways for one family.
Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?
Where we are going, I don't know. It doesn't seem to be the place that is important but the steps in between.