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Andrei, on the other hand, was always from a different group of blood, as her mother calls him. Is it his otherness that feels so thrilling,
She has prepared all those words, neatly arranged, but not one of them is now breaking from its mooring to float to the surface.
alleys of the dead,
She feels that the air in the room has lost its charge; it is already a room that belongs to the past, a room waiting for its next encounter, a room to be forgotten.
simple answers to questions fraught with infinitives.
she needs to dress the idea in words.
trust is an exotic fruit that doesn’t grow in this semiarctic zone of freezing winters and rainy, mosquito-infested summers. Aside
“In this life It’s not difficult to die. To make life Is more difficult by far.”
what’s inside you, no one can touch.
This loss is as thick as glue, sticking to all the other losses scattered on the bottom of her soul, dragging them up, pulling off all the scabs.
Silence in her apartment, silence in her soul, silence hand in hand with guilt.
That’s the essence of acting: looking for the truth. There is nothing fake about it. There is no pretending.”
I would have never known, even after three years at the front, how fiercely we claw for life, even life in a German prison camp.
