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Madonna in a Fur ...
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Scythe
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by Neal Shusterman (Goodreads Author)
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  (page 227 of 435)
Jul 25, 2022 07:37AM

 
Eleanor Oliphant ...
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Nov 08, 2021 09:11PM

 
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Markus Zusak
“Hair the color of lemons,'" Rudy read. His fingers touched the words. "You told him about me?"

At first, Liesel could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

Years ago, when they'd raced on a muddy field, Rudy was a hastily assembled set of bones, with a jagged, rocky smile. In the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears. He was a triple Hitler Youth athletics champion. He was her best friend. And he was a month from his death.

Of course I told him about you," Liesel said.”
Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Markus Zusak
“I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.”
Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Mitch Albom
“There are no random acts...We are all connected...You can no more separate one life from another than you can separate a breeze from the wind...”
Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven
tags: life

Markus Zusak
“I am haunted by humans.”
Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Sylvia Plath
“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they executed the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read about in the papers -- goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me at every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.

I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.

New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-gray at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the sun, the car tops sizzled and glittered, and the dry, cindery dust blew into my eyes and down my throat.”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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