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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.

Elizabeth Wein

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Elizabeth Wein
Thing
Plummeting
Long
Plummet
World
Treacherous
Lifted
Lets
Lifts
Worry
Hope

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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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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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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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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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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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You can't just sit in a corner weeping or you'll die.
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Incredible what slender threads you begin to hang your hopes on.
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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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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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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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One moment flying in green sunlight, then the sky suddenly grey and dark.
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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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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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Don't know how I kept going. You just do. You have to, so you do.
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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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Fight with realistic hope, not to destroy all the world's wrong, but to renew its good.
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Careless talk costs lives.
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There’s glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will
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