On June 23, 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on Polish soil. The first person I took was close to the door, his mind racing, then reduced to pacing, then slowing down, slowing down....
Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each would that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.
I took them all away, and if there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to gray to the color of rain. Even the clouds were trying to get away.
Sometimes I imagined how everything looked above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.
They ere French, they were Jews, and they were you.
Mots clés death french world-war-ii jews the-book-thief
The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs, jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder.
They breathed.
German and Jewish lungs.
Mots clés jewish the-book-thief german nazi-germany
Und es sollte mir einmal mehr beweisen, dass eine Gelegenheit geradewegs zu einer anderen führt, genauso wie ein Risiko ein weiteres nach sich zieht, ein Leben ein anderes und ein Tod den nächsten.
Markus ZusakSo many colors.
They keep triggering inside me. They harstinker my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all
mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are
skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds,
beating like black hearts.
And then.
There is death.
Making his way through all of it.
On the surface: unflappable, unwavering.
Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.
Everything was good.
But it was awful, too.
Ignoraba que las palabras pudieran pesar tanto.
Markus ZusakMots clés friendship books love markus-zusak messenger
DEFINICIÓN NO ENCONTRADA EN EL DICCIONARIO
No irse: acto de confianza y amor, a menudo descifrado por los niños.
Por encima de todo, la ladrona de libros ansiaba volver al sótano a escribir o leer su historia una vez más. Ahora que lo pienso, sin duda se le veía en la cara. Se moría de ganas de reencontrar esa seguridad, ese hogar, pero era incapaz de moverse. Además, el sótano ya no existía. Era parte del paisaje desvastado.
Markus Zusak¿HAY ALGO PEOR QUE
UN CHICO QUE TE ODIE?
Un chico que te quiera.
When death tells a story yo really have to listen
Markus ZusakMots clés life-and-death
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