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Kindle Notes & Highlights
The streets were ruptured veins.
No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.
strangeness of her foster father’s eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting.
Not-leaving: An act of trust and love, often deciphered by children.
The point is, it didn’t really matter what that book was about. It was what it meant that was more important.
Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.
I guess humans like to watch a little destruction. Sandcastles, houses of cards, that’s where they begin. Their great skill is their capacity to escalate.
criminality spoke best for itself. Irrefutable.
The conversation of bullets.
the violent architecture of his skull
Sometimes there was humour in Max Vandenburg’s voice, though its physicality was like friction – like a stone being gently rubbed across a large rock.
In the basement, when she wrote about her life, Liesel vowed that she would never drink champagne again, for it would never taste as good as it did on that warm afternoon in July.
dying men always ask questions they know the answer to. Perhaps it’s so they can die being right.
As she crossed the river, a rumour of sunshine stood behind the clouds.
The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.
a returned soldier was discovered to be dead. He was hanging from one of the rafters in a laundry up near Frau Diller’s. Another human pendulum. Another clock, stopped.
He killed himself for wanting to live.
Enormous suitcases under the eyes.
