If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.
for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.
A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.
His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have be...
Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.
I carried [Rudy] softly through the broken street...with him I tried a little harder [at comforting]. I watched the contents of his soul for a moment and saw a black-painted boy calling the name Jesse Owens as he ran through an imaginary tape. I saw ...
Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
And it would show me, once again, that one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.
Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.
It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice. As you may expect, someone has died.
The bombs were coming-and so was I.
I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
Summer came. For the book thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews. When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases...
Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesn't usually wait for very long.
Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.
Death's Diary: 1942 - It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to just name a few. Forget the scythe, God damn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a holiday. (...) They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a differ...
On many counts, taking a boy like Rudy Steiner was robbery--so much life, so much to live for--yet somehow, I'm certain he would have loved to see the frightening rubble and the swelling of the sky on the night he passed away. He'd have cried and tur...
