She’ll never understand the shyness of Sophie’s words or the silence of her beauty.
The science of Papa’s trade brought him an even greater level of respect. It was well and good to share bread and music, but it was nice for Liesel to know that he was also more than capable in his occupation. Competence was attractive.
Statues with beating hearts.
Words are heavy... The words were stapled to her.
Make no mistake, this woman had a heart. She had a bigger one than people would think. There was a lot in it, stored up, high in miles of hidden shelving. Remember that she was the woman with the instrument strapped to her body in the long, moon-slit night. She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on a man’s first night in Molching. And she was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl.
All afternoon, I read. I fall asleep once as well, no disrespect to the writers.
With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man die – a safe merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the color of summer’s skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing disappeared completely. “When death captures me,” the boy vowed, “he will feel my fist on his face.
Without words, the Fuhrer was nothing.
The world did not deserve such a river.
It’s pathetic – how a man can stand by and do nothing as a whole nation cleans out the garbage and makes itself great.” Trudy.
Ser bueno en algo era interesante.
Anhelaba volver a la inconsciencia de entonces, a sentir tanto amor sin saberlo y a confundirlo con las risas.
When they came together, Michael apologized.
At first, I’d wanted to write Merry Christmas on the box somewhere, but I decide against it. This isn’t about words. It’s about glowing lights and small things that are big.
El silencio no era quietud o calma, y desde luego no era paz.
She seemed to collect the words in her hand, pat them together and hurl them across the table.
I’m ready now.” If he’d intervened, it might have.
Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see the paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the grey, the every-coloured books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen. With.
Not that it was a living hell. It wasn’t. But it sure as hell wasn’t heaven, either.
A mosquito sings in my ear, and I almost feel grateful for the company. I’m even tempted to sing along. It.