A certain luxury when you get to writing a novel is to have the space to have your characters just banter.
This wasn’t the way I had imagined my adventures, but reality ignored my wishes from the get-go, giving me a body best suited for stacking books in the library, injecting so much fear into my veins that I could only cower in the stairwell when the violence came. Maybe someday my arms and legs would thicken with muscle and the fear would drain away like dirty bathwater. I wish I believed these things would happen, but I didn’t.
The days had become a confusion of catastrophes; what seemed impossible in the afternoon was blunt fact by the evening.
Stalin goes to visit one of the collectives outside of Moscow,” began Kolya in his joke-telling voice. “Wants to see how they’re getting on with the latest Five-Year Plan. ‘Tell me, comrade,’ he asks one farmer. ‘How did the potatoes do this year?’ ‘Very well, Comrade Stalin. If we piled them up, they would reach God.’ ‘But God does not exist, Comrade Farmer.’ ‘Nor do the potatoes, Comrade Stalin.
He gave me a small, secretive smile, a smile that said he knew many things but couldn’t share them all at once.
It made me happy that poems are referred to in the present tense even when the poet is in the past tense.
The front door is usually unlocked and there is no alarm system. They don’t wear their seat belts in the car; they don’t wear suntan lotion in the sun. They have decided nothing can kill them but God himself, and they don’t even believe in him.
Ah, the farmer, he kicks the first sack, ‘Meow,’ and so on. He kicks the second sack, and the boy inside says, ‘Woof!’ Pretending to be – ” Kolya pointed at me to finish the sentence. “A cow.” “A dog. When he kicks the third sack, the boy inside says, ‘Potatoes!’ ” We walked in silence. “Well,” said Kolya at last, “other people think it’s funny.” On.
Kolya was a braggart, a know-it-all, a Jew-baiting Cossack, but his confidence was so pure and complete it no longer seemed like arrogance, just the mark of a man who had accepted his own heroic destiny.
If we piled them up, they would reach God.’ ‘But God does not exist, Comrade Farmer.’ ‘Nor do the potatoes, Comrade Stalin.’ ” “Old one.” “Jokes only get old if they’re good. Otherwise, who keeps telling them?” “People like you who aren’t funny?
She was not a writer herself but she was a very good reader, passionate and eclectic in her tastes, and my father had great faith in her judgments.
Your mother and sister weren’t on the radio telling us all to be brave. Look, I don’t expect composers and poets to be heroes. I just don’t like hypocrites.
I was a runt from birth. Big nosed, black haired, skin scribbled with acne – let’s admit I was no girl’s idea of a catch. But war made me more attractive. Others dwindled as the ration cards were cut and cut again, halving those who looked like circus strongmen before the invasion. I had no muscle to lose. Like the shrews that kept scavenging while the dinosaurs toppled around them, I was built for deprivation.
De waarheid mag dan vreemder zijn dan de verbeelding, maar vraagt wel om een betere redacteur. Het grootste deel van het leven van een mens is de moeite van het onthouden niet waard.
You must always kiss as if kissing will be outlawed at dawn.
Vika sat next to me, chewing on her fingernails. She chewed methodically, not an anxious person with a nervous habit but a butcher sharpening his knives.
Real terror – the genuine belief that your life is about to end violently – erases everything but itself from the brain.
Start admiring the vastness of the forest and a tree will surely fall on you, bashing your skull for the crime of perspective.
In certain ways I am deeply stupid. I don’t say this out of modesty. I believe that I’m more intelligent than the average human being, though perhaps intelligence should not be looked at as a single gauge, like a speedometer, but as a full array of tachometers, odometers, altimeters, and the rest.
The partisans would continue picking off Nazis; the Nazis would continue massacring noncombatants; and eventually the Fascists would learn that they could not win the war even if they killed thirty civilians for every one of their dead soldiers. The arithmetic was brutal, but brutal arithmetic always worked in Russia’s favor.
Heroes and fast sleepers, then, can switch off their thoughts when necessary. Cowards and insomniacs, my people, are plagued by babble on the brain.