I can’t even imagine it. We really have to protect people from wrong choices.”
“It’s safer.” “Yes,” Jonas agreed. “Much safer.” But when the conversation turned to other things,
Jonas was left, still, with a feeling of frustration that he didn’t understand.
He found that he was often angry, now: irrationally angry at his groupmates,
that they were satisfied with their lives which had none of the vibrance his own was taking on.
And he was angry at himself, that he could not change that for them. He tried.
Without asking permission from The Giver, because he feared—or knew—that it would be denied, he tried to give his new awareness to his friends.
“Asher,” Jonas said one morning, “look at those flowers very carefully.”
They were standing beside a bed of geraniums planted near the Hall of Open Records.
He put his hands on Asher’s shoulders, and concentrated on the red of the petals,
trying to hold it as long as he could, and trying at the same time to transmit the awareness of red to his friend.
“What’s the matter?” Asher asked uneasily. “Is something wrong?”
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