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traveled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.
Eleven-year-old paranoia was powerful. Eleven-year-old relief was euphoric.
God. Twice, I speak it. I say His name in a futile attempt to understand. “But it’s not your job to understand.” That’s me who answers. God never says anything. You think you’re the only one he never answers?
The silence was always the greatest temptation.
about silence
The boy from the plane, I thought. The one with the teddy bear. Where was Rudy’s comfort? Where was someone to alleviate this robbery of his life? Who was there to soothe him as life’s rug was snatched from under his sleeping feet? No one. There was only me.
I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
these lines.. they stepped on my heart.
He was tall in the bed and I could see the silver through his eyelids. 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 been put out. More of them have already found their way to
magnetic pull toward the basement, for the girl who was his daughter and was writing a book down there that he hoped to read one day. Liesel.
If she’d seen me, I’m sure she would have called me a Saukerl, though I would not have taken it badly. After reading The Book Thief, I discovered that she called everyone that. Saukerl. Saumensch. Especially the people she loved. Her elastic hair was out. It rubbed against the pillow and her wardrobe body had risen with the beating of her heart. Make no mistake, the woman had a heart. She had a bigger one than people would think. There was a lot in it, stored up, high in miles of hidden shelving. Remember that she was the woman with the instrument strapped to her body in the long, moon-slit
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Usually my curiosity leads to the dreaded witnessing of some kind of human outcry,
He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist’s suit collection. She kissed him long and soft, and when she pulled herself away, she touched his mouth with her fingers.
world is a factory. The sun stirs it, the humans rule it. And I remain. I carry them away.
wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race—that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.
A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR I am haunted by humans.
