Frederick said we don’t have choices, don’t own our lives, but in the end it was Werner who pretended there were no choices, Werner who watched Frederick dump the pail of water at his feet—I will not—...
Artillery has stopped for the moment, and the predawn fires inside the walls take on a steady middle life, an adulthood.
Hope was a sunrise, a friend in an alley, a whisper in an empty corridor.
That first peach slithers down his throat like rapture. A sunrise in his mouth.
There, thinks Werner when he finds it again, there: a feeling like shutting your eyes and feeling your way down a mile-long thread until your fingernails find the tiny lump of a knot.
Weaker moments, he
Rome is a broken mirror, the falling straps of a dress, a puzzle of astonishing complexity. It is an iceberg floating below our terrace, all its ballasts hidden beneath the surface.
A una chica la han echado hoy de la piscina. A inge Hachmann. Nos han dicho que no podemos nadar con mestizas, que es poco higiénico. Una mestiza, Werner. ¿No somos nosotro stamibén mestizos? ¿La mita...
Home of mice and damp and the stink of stranded shellfish, as if a huge tide swept in decades ago and took its time draining away. Marie-Laure hesitates over the open door, smelling the fires from out...
But what was family? Surely more than genes, eye color, flesh. Family was story: truth and struggle and retribution. Family was time.
Hope is something that can be very dangerous but without it life would be horribly dry. Impossible, even.
He says there are sixty-five million specimens in this place, and if you have the right teacher, each can be as interesting as the last.
— Setenta e seis anos de idade — murmura ela — e ainda consigo me sentir assim? Como uma garotinha com os olhos brilhando?
O tempo é algo escorregadio: segure com firmeza, ou seu encadeamento pode escoar de suas mãos para sempre.
What you could be.
Open your eyes and see what you can with them before they close forever
At the fairgrounds we saw them in the parking lot inhaling the effluvium of carnival, the smells of fried dough, caramel and cinnamon, the flap-flapping of tents, a carousel plinking out music-box son...
The house seems the material equivalent of her uncle’s inner being: apprehensive, isolated, but full of cobwebby wonders. In
One of his boots has lost its lace, and its tongue lolls cannibalistically.
Whose sisters listen to foreign radio stations? The woman
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