He blinks; he has to swallow back tears. The parlor
He lingers over images of Marie-Laure—her hands, her hair—even as he worries that to concentrate on them too long is to risk wearing them out.
He says, You are very brave.She lowers the bucket. What is your name?He tells her. She says, When I lost my sight Werner, people said I was brave. When my father left, people said I was brave. But it...
He sees what other people don’t. What the war did to dreamers.
He takes her hand to help her over the piles. No shells fall and no rifles crack and the light is soft and shot through with ash. Jutta, he thinks, I finally listened.
He was just a boy. They all were. Even the largest of them.
How do you ever know that you are doing the right thing?
If only life were like a Jules Verne novel, thinks Marie-Laure, and you could page ahead when you most needed to, and learn what would happen.
If your same blood doesn't run in the arms and legs of the person you're next to, you can't trust anything.
It seems to Werner that in the space between whatever has happened already and whatever is to come hovers an invisible borderland, the known on one side and the unknown on the other.
It’s like cold silk. Cold, sumptuous silk onto which the sea has laid offerings: pebbles, shells, barnacles. Tiny slips of wrack. Her fingers dig and reach; the drops of rain touch the back of her nec...
It’s surely nonsense, yet something hangs inside it, some truth he does not want to allow himself
Late-night shortwave: province of ramblers and dreamers, madmen and ranters.
Logic. The principles of validity. Every lock has its key.
Lord Our God Your Grace is a purifying fire.
Rauchkäse
She can hear the bombers when they are three miles away. A mounting static. The hum inside a seashell.
She whispers, A whelk.
The crests above the door lintels still have bumblebees carved into the oak; the ivy-covered fountain in the courtyard is shaped like a hive.
The war drops its question mark.
Showing 441 to 460 of 655 results