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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.

Elizabeth Wein

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Elizabeth Wein
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We are a sensational team.
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Southampton's barrage balloons floated gleaming in the moonlight like the ghosts of elephants and hippos.
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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.
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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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There’s glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will
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A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.
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Careless talk costs lives.
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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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He just put his hand through the bulkhead, exactly as she'd done, and squeezed my shoulder. He has very strong fingers. And he kept his hand there the whole way home, even when he was reading the map and giving me headings. So I am not flying alone now after all.
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Von Loewe really should know me well enough by now to realize that I am not going to face my execution without a fight. Or with anything remotely resembling dignity.
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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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You can't just sit in a corner weeping or you'll die.
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There were no route maps posted on the walls, but a Wonderland-style sign commanding, 'If you know where you are, then please tell others.
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You can come back to friendship. You can let it drop, for five years or ten years, and come back to it.
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Don't know how I kept going. You just do. You have to, so you do.
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One moment flying in green sunlight, then the sky suddenly grey and dark.
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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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Please come back soon. The window is always open.
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Incredible what slender threads you begin to hang your hopes on.
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But a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France-a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will be unflyable, stuck in the climb.
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