It’s my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn’t feel like this.
On the other hand, he was also enjoying the ecstasy of an idea, not daring just yet to envision its complications, dangers, and vicious absurdities. For now, the idea was enough. It was indestructible. Transforming it into reality, well, that was something else altogether. For now, though, let’s let him enjoy it.
Whoever named Himmel Street certainly had a healthy sense of irony. Not that is was a living hell. It wasn’t. But is sure as hell wasn’t heaven, either.
It’s much easier . . . to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
Amen,’ I say, delayed, and now, like many of these people, I pray for the first time in years.
god bless the man with the beard, the missing teeth and the poverty Ritchie
For Liesel Meminger, the early stages of 1942 could be summed up like this:
She became thirteen years of age. Her chest was still flat. She had not yet bled. The young man from her basement was now in her bed.
How did Max Vandenburg end up in liesel’s bed? He fell.
I see their ugly and their beauty, and wonder how the same thing can be both.
It was one of the joys of childhood.
It’s also worthy of mention that every pattern has at least one small bias, and one day it will tip itself over or fall from one page to another.