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Maddie took the top of her egg off. The hot bright yolk was like summer sun breaking through cloud. The first daffodil in the snow. A gold sovereign wrapped in a white silk handkerchief. She dipped her spoon in it and licked it.

Elizabeth Wein

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Elizabeth Wein
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Oh Julie, wouldn’t I know if you were dead? Wouldn’t I feel it happening, like a jolt of electricity to my heart?
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Five years of destruction and mayhem, lives lost everywhere, shortages of food and fuel and clothing - and the insane mind behind it just urges us all on and on to more destruction. And we all keep playing.
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She whispered, 'C'etait la Verite?' Was that Verity? Or perhaps she just meant, Was that the truth? Was it true? Did any of it really happen? Were the last three hours real? 'Yes,' I whispered back. 'Oui. C'etait la verite.
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But I have told the truth. Isn't that ironic? They sent me because I am so good at telling lies. But I have told the truth.
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Southampton's barrage balloons floated gleaming in the moonlight like the ghosts of elephants and hippos.
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Please come back soon. The window is always open.
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I think as readers we put ourselves in the protagonist's place because we want to be like that person. That's why sometimes we don't like protagonists who aren't all that nice we want to relate to the protagonist.
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We are a sensational team.
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A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.
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There’s glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will
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Incredible what slender threads you begin to hang your hopes on.
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Fight with realistic hope, not to destroy all the world's wrong, but to renew its good.
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Hope is the most treacherous thing in the world. It lifts you and lets you plummet. But as long as you're being lifted you don't worry about plummeting.
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It's an illusion I've noticed before-- words on a page are like oxygen to a petrol engine, firing up ghosts. It only lasts while the words are in your head. After you put down the paper or pen, the pistons fall lifeless again.
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