Elizabeth Wein Quotes
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If I am very lucky - I mean if I am clever about it - I will get myself shot. Here, soon.
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...unless you were doing them a favor by killing them. Then, you'd let them down if you didn't, if you couldn't make yourself.
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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.
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The quick, sudden terror of exploding bombs is not the same as the never-ending, bone-sapping fear of discovery and capture. It never goes away. There isn’t ever any relief, never the possibility of an ‘All Clear’ siren. You always feel a little bit sick inside, knowing the worst might happen at any moment.
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But people need lift, too. People don't get moving, they don't soar, they don't achieve great heights, without someone buoying them up.
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The soaring mountains rose around her, and the poets’ waters glittered beneath her in the valleys of memory—hosts of golden daffodils, Swallows and Amazons, Peter Rabbit.
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You know how sometimes when you come home and you haven't seen a place for so long that it seems unbelievably beautiful, and you want to cry because you love it so much you think it's going to break your heart? I felt like that, too. I am HOME.
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I felt like one who wants to trap and cage a little bird, and after years of waiting and luring and baiting finds that she must do no more than hold out her hand, and the finch lands on her finger and does not fly. You scarcely dare to move. It rests on your hand whole and free, foolishly trusting and infinitely courageous. It will never be more beautiful.
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I am like a ruined piece of parchment scrawled over and over again with your name, so many times it has become illegible.
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If you're scared, do something.
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Don’t you think it makes them stronger when you give them someone to despise?
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Lucky for me I didn’t know. Why lucky for her? Not lucky for the people she was protecting, but lucky for Róża. She didn’t have to choose.
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The ballpoint pen was invented by László Bíró, a Hungarian journalist who fled to Argentina to escape the German occupation of Europe. In 1943 he licensed his invention to the RAF, and the first ballpoint pens were manufactured in Reading, England, by the Miles aircraft manufacturer, to supply pilots with a lasting ink supply!
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For the pleasure of giving, because what's the point of just having? If I give a thing, I remember how happy we both were when I made the gift.
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It makes you very uncomfortable to realize that your emotional attachment to something is an indulgence.
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And I envied her that she had chosen her work herself and was doing what she wanted to do. I don't suppose I had any idea what I 'wanted' and so I was chosen, not choosing. There's glory and honor in being chosen. But not much room for free will.
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The fuss made over the chickens at the checkpoints is not to be believed. Unlike me they had their own papers.
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You can come back to friendship. You can let it drop, for five years or ten years, and come back to it.
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I AM A COWARD.
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There’s glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will.
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I realized I would be forced to run away from home if someone tried to arrange a marriage for me. I didn't want to think about it.
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It's like being in love, discovering your best friend.
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It's impossible to stall a Lizzie.
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Maddie quickly pulled down the blackout curtains over her bright and vulnerable soul.