The Host is a science fiction/romance novel by Stephenie Meyer. The novel introduces an alien race, called Souls, which takes over the Earth and its inhabitants. The book describes one Soul's predicament when the mind of its human host refuses to cooperate with her takeover. The Host was released on May 6, 2008 with an initial print run of 750,000 copies.An international version of the novel was released on April 2, 2008 in the United Kingdom, Ireland, Indonesia, the Philippines, Australia, and Hong Kong by the UK publishing division. It was translated into Catalan, Chinese, Japanese, Czech,Dutch, Swedish, German, Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, Hungarian, Romanian, Serbian, Hebrew and Danish among others. The prologue and the fourth chapter of the book can be found on Meyer's official website.
From the book
"Iknew it would begin with the end, and the end would look like death to these eyes. I had been
warned.
Notthese eyes.My eyes. Mine. This wasme now.
The language I found myself using was odd, but it made sense. Choppy, boxy, blind, and linear.
Impossibly crippled in comparison to many I'd used, yet still it managed to find fluidity and
expression. Sometimes beauty. My language now. My native tongue.
With the truest instinct of my kind, I'd bound myself securely into the body's center of thought,
twined myself inescapably into its every breath and reflex until it was no longer a separate
entity. It was me.
Notthe body,my body.
I felt the sedation wearing off and lucidity taking its place. I braced myself for the onslaught of
the first memory, which would really be the last memory–the last moments this body had
experienced, the memory of the end. I had been warned thoroughly of what would happen now.
These human emotions would be stronger, more vital than the feelings of any other species I had
been. I had tried to prepare myself.
The memory came. And, as I'd been warned, it was not something that could ever be prepared
for.
It seared with sharp color and ringing sound. Cold on her skin, pain gripping her limbs, burning
them. The taste was fiercely metallic in her mouth. And there was the new sense, the fifth sense
I'd never had, that took the particles from the air and transformed them into strange messages
and pleasures and warnings in her brain–scents. They were distracting, confusing to me, but not
to her memory. The memory had no time for the novelties of smell. The memory was only fear.
Fear locked her in a vise, goading the blunt, clumsy limbs forward but hampering them at the
same time. To flee, to run–it was all she could do.
I've failed.
The memory that was not mine was so frighteningly strong and clear that it sliced through my
control–overwhelmed the detachment, the knowledge that this was just a memory and not me.
Sucked into the hell that was the last minute of her life, I was she, and we were running.
It's so dark. I can't see. I can't see the floor. I can't see my hands stretched out in front of me. I
run blind and try to hear the pursuit I can feel behind me, but the pulse is so loud behind my ears
it drowns everything else out."
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