And you know I don’t believe in God.” She moves, blocking my path. “That doesn’t mean He doesn’t believe in you,” she says.
But it feels like we are sitting on a tight bench of a bus with a stranger between us, one that neither of us is willing to admit to or mention, and so we find ourselves talking around him and through him and sneaking glances when the other one isn’t looking. How am I supposed to think about Anna Fitzgerald when I’m wondering whether Julia has ever woken up in someone’s arms and for just a moment, before the sleep cleared from her mind, thought maybe it was me?
Fortunes were like clay, and could be reshaped at any time.
When the life left a person, it wasn’t by degrees. It was instant, like someone pulling down a shade on a window. The.
Cuando emprendes un viaje de venganza, comienza por cavar dos tumbas: una para tu enemigo y una para ti.
And afterward, when the leaves turned and the snow came, every now and then I would rise in everyone’s minds like a tide.
This is true of anyone: the music we choose is a clear reflection of who we really are.
There is a picture of me from that day. I saw it once on a PBS documentary about April 15, 1945, when the first British tanks approached Bergen-Belsen.
How do you do it?” I ask softly, and I’m no longer asking just about her and Josef but about myself as well. “How do you get up every morning and not remember?
She didn’t like it when religious folks looked down on her for being an atheist; but to be honest, I didn’t see how this was any different from the way she looked down on people for being Christians.
No matter what we survivors like to tell ourselves about the afterlife, when someone dies, everything is over.
If you sit around and think about how hot the fire’s going to be, you’ll never get into the thick of it.
Either you dissolve into a puddle, or you take the blow on the cheek and force yourself to lift your face again for more.
When you die, you die. And everything is over.
To us, summer was a verb.
She spent the rest of her time holding on to whatever scraps she had left.
He presses himself so close to me that any hurt left on the surface between us spreads thin, becomes a binding instead of a boundary.
It makes me wonder how I’d be treated if I were like everyone else. Maybe I’m a pretty rotten person, not that anyone would ever have the guts to tell me this to my face. Maybe everyone thinks I’m rude or ugly or stupid but they have to be nice because it could be the circumstances of my life that make me that way.
Truth expands until it can choke you.
Nobody wants to admit to this, but bad things will keep on happening. Maybe.