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I need complicated railroad journeys and people speaking to me in foreign languages to keep me happy. I want to see the world and write stories about everything I see.
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Emmy and I are still Habte Sadek's favorite foreigners, and it is all because I wanted to look at his feet when I was eleven years old! But it never hurts to be polite to people.
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Looking up at the stars and smoking in silence.
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So, I have no sense of direction. In some of us it is a TRAGIC FLAW.
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I don't recognise any of my emotions any more. There's no such thing as plain joy or grief. It's horror and relief and panic and gratitude all jumbled together.
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Doing the thing you are scared of is much harder than not being afraid of anything. It is easy to be brave. It is not so easy to be scared and do a brave thing anyway.
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These trials aren't about revenge. They're about justice. Don't you want justice, Rose Justice?
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Must stop. This ink is amazing, it really doesn't smear, even when you cry on it.
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A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.
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Here he comes, moving among the enemies all on his own. Do you see? He acts alone, but he is not alone. He has an army behind him, also, my army; and with our lives we will fight to defend him.
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And this, even more wonderful and mysterious, is also true: when I read it, when I read what Julie's written, she is instantly alive again, whole and undamaged. With her words in my mind while I'm reading, she is as real as I am. Gloriously daft, drop-dead charming, full of bookish nonsense and foul language, brave and generous. She's right here. Afraid and exhausted, alone, but fighting. Flying in silver moonlight in a plane that can't be landed, stuck in the climb—alive, alive, ALIVE.
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I think that what I do is a form of pathetic fallacy, the literary trope in which nature is in sympathy with the mood of the story. I connect the physical setting and props in the story to the emotional state of the characters.
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High time they put the RAF in kilts.
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The anticipation of what they will do to you is every bit as sickening in a dream as when it is really going to happen.
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It is incredible what you do, knowing you have to.
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Everything I know about passive resistance I learned from Micheline. She always appeared to be doing exactly as she was told, but everything she did took twice as long as it should have.
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I sometimes think young people are not given nearly enough credit for their ability to appreciate literary flourish.
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She gave a low and delighted chuckle. Her eyes were black as a moonless December night and reflected the electric lights like stars.
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Stars poked through like holes in the cloth of the sky and shed no light on anything.
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I seem to be good at asking for trouble.
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It was a nightmare I could never really define, to have so many people packed around me and not be able to communicate with any of them unless they felt like it.
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This is what’s so heartbreaking: the fact that I am here, alive, has no doubt given Fernande some grain of hope for her daughter. But the fact that I was there makes me sure there isn’t any.
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It's very modern. Very gamine. You look like a jazz singer.
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She whispered, 'C'etait la Verite?' Was that Verity? Or perhaps she just meant, Was that the truth? Was it true? Did any of it really happen? Were the last three hours real? 'Yes,' I whispered back. 'Oui. C'etait la verite.