how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

In all honesty (and I know I’m complaining excessively now), I was still getting over Stalin, in Russia. The so-called second revolution-the murder of his own people.
Then came Hitler.
They say that war is death’s best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thing, incessantly: “Get it done, get it done.

Apesadumbrada, se dio cuenta de que los relojes no suenan a nada que se parezca siquiera a un tictac, sino al ruido que hace un martillo, arriba y abajo, golpeando una y otra vez contra el suelo. El sonido de una sepultura.

For most of the journey, he made his way through the book,trying never to look up.
The words lolled in his mouth as he read them.
Strangely, as he turned the pages and progressed through the chapters, it was only two words he ever tasted.
“Mein Kampf.” My struggle-
The title, over and over again, as the train prattled on, from one German town to the next.
“Mein Kampf.”
Of all the things to save him.

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