We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them. We wanted to hatch out of clean, smooth, beautiful eggs, as they did, back when we were young and agile and innocent of cause and effect, we did not want the mess of being born, and so we crammed the birds into our gullets, feathers and all, but it was no use, we couldn't sing, not effortlessly as they do, we can't fly, not without smoke and metal, and as for the eggs we don't stand a chance. We're mired in gravity, we're earthbound. We're ankle-deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.

Cara: *Flies*Gen: What? I don't have wings!Cara: Ofcourse not! You're a boy.

Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.

There is a trick to flying. The angels told me. He had smiled at my wide-eyed awe. You need to forget everything you know as a human being. When you are human, you discover that there is great power in hating the earth. And it can almost make you fly. But it never will.I had frowned, not quite understanding him. So, what's the trick?Love the sky.

Flights are expansive moments when the phone doesn't ring and the Internet doesn't work. The maxim that flying time is wasted time liberates me from my anxieties and guilt feelings, and it strips me of all ambitions, leaving room for a different sort of existence. A happy, idiotic existence, the kind that doesn't try to make the most of time but is satisfied with merely finding the most enjoyable way to spend it.

Max. Fang let go of my hand. Right now, it's really all about— us. He swooped down to the right in a big semicircle, ending facing me. Slowly we climbed upward, until we were almost vertical, flying straight up to the sun. While carefully synchronizing our wings— they almost touched— Fang leaned in, gently put one hand behind my neck, and kissed me. It was just about as close to heaven as I'll ever get, I guess. I closed my eyes, lost in the feeling of flying and kissing and being with the one person in the world I completely,utterly trusted. When we finally broke apart, we looked down at the others, who were way far below us now. Angel was shading her eyes, looking up at us with a big smile. She was sitting on a dolphin's back, and I hoped soon someone would explain to the dolphin that he shouldn't let Angel take advantage of his good nature. Still looking up at us, Angel gave us a big thumbs-up. She approves, Fang said with a hint of amusement.Jeez, I wondered aloud. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Entering a cell, penetrating deep as a flying saucer to find a new galaxy would be an honorable task for a new scientist interested more in the inner state of the soul than in outer space.

Use the wings of the flying Universe, Dream with open eyes; See in darkness.

Q: You'er presented with a smooth-faced, eight-foot-high wooden wall. Your objective? Get over it. To, like, save comrades or something. How to accomplish this?A: Take a running start, brace one foot against the wall, throw one hand to the top, try to hang on long enough for a comrade to either grab your hand at the top or for another comrade to push your butt up from below. It takes team work! over it.

The Guide says there is an art to flying, said Ford, or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.

Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

Do you love him?Deryn swallowed, then pointed at the screen. He makes me feel like that. Like flying.

A butterfly is a caterpillar who never gave up on his dream to fly.

A person with low standards will forever be walking. A person with high standard will soon stop walking and start running. Later, they'll soon stop running and start galloping. The next time you see him, he's either flying or soaring.

You don't see someone flying and you begin to bite yourself for not being able to do that. You do what you can.

I have seen the science I worshiped, and the aircraft I loved, destroying the civilization I expected them to serve.

At the end of the first half-century of engine-driven flight, we are confronted with the stark fact that the historical significance of aircraft has been primarily military and destructive.

Flight is the only truly new sensation that men have achieved in modern history.

Surely no child, and few adults, have ever watched a bird in flight without envy.

Come to the edge, he said. They said, We are afraid. Come to the edge, he said. They came. He pushed them And they flew.