Elizabeth Wein Quotes

More than anything else, I think, Maddie went to war on behalf of the Holy Island seals.

The first thing I ever said to her was to recite a poem, so after a moment I finished this one for her, softly.

"Hope sails and plunges
firmly caught
at the end of her string -
fallen slack, pulling taught
ragged and featherless.
Hope never flies
but doggedly watches
for windy skies."

She was quiet then. The last verse isn't really very hopeful. Poor ragged kite, always waiting for a wind that never comes.

Finally, Róza took a deep breath.

"It's windy now," she said.

I don't recognise any of my emotions any more. There's no such thing as plain joy or grief. It's horror and relief and panic and gratitude all jumbled together.

For the pleasure of giving, because what's the point of just having? If I give a thing, I remember how happy we both were when I made the gift.

She has the filthiest tongue of any woman in France. Burn her mouth clean.

Did I call them Laurel and Hardy? I meant sodding Romeo and Juliet. This is flirting, á la Gestapo underlings:

She: Oh, you are so strong and manly, M'sieur Thibaut. These knots you tie are so secure.

He: That is nothing. Look, I pull them so tight you cannot undo them. Try.

She: It is true, I cannot! Oh, pull them tighter!

He: Chérie, your wish is my command.

It is my ankles, not hers, which he is binding so tightly and with such masculine charm.

She: I shall have to call you in tomorrow morning as well, to do this task for me.

He: You must cross the cords, so, and knot them behind -

Me: Squeak! Squeak!

She: Shut up and write, ya wee skrikin' Scots piece o' shite.

Well, no, she did not use those exact words. But you get the idea.

There's glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will

Unless you were doing them a favor by killing them. Then, you'd let them down if you didn't, if you couldn't make yourself.

Hope has no feathers
Hope takes flight
tethered with twine
like a tattered kite,
slave to the wind's
capricious drift
eager to soar
but needing lift

Hope waits stubbornly
watching the sky
for turmoil, feeding on
things that fly:
crows, ashes, newspapers,
dry leaves in flight
all suggest wind
that could lift a kite

Hope sails and plunges
firmly caught
at the end of her string -
fallen slack, pulling taught,
ragged and featherless.
Hope never flies
but doggedly watches
for windy skies.

How does she do it? She makes it sound like she is so cut up to be giving them this information, and it's all just bumph out of her head. She never told them ANYTHING. I don't think she's given them the right name of any airfield in Britain except Mainsend and Buscot, which of course were where she was stationed. They could have easily checked. It's all so close to truth, and so glib
her aircraft identification is rather good considering what a fuss she makes about it. It makes me think of the first day I met her, giving those directions in German. So cool and crisp, such authority
suddenly she really was a radio operator, a German radio operator, she was so good at faking it. Or when I told her to be Jamie, how she just suddenly turned into Jamie.
This confession of hers is rotten with error ...

So, I have no sense of direction. In some of us it is a TRAGIC FLAW, and

How can you grow to love a handful of strangers so fiercely just because you have to sleep on the same couple of wooden planks with them, when half the time you were there you wanted to strangle them, and all you ever talked about is death and imaginary strawberries?

I seem to be good at asking for trouble.

When you're flying, the changing balance of lift and weight pulls you up or down. But another pair of forces pulls you forward or backward through the air: thrust and drag. Thrust is the power that pulls the kite forward - you run with it to get it up in the air. You have to have thrust to create lift. Drag is there because your kite's surfaces push against the air and slow the kite down. Drag doesn't pull you out of the sky; it makes you fly more slowly.

If you're scared, do something.

With her words in my mind while I'm reading, she is as real as I am. Gloriously daft, drop-dead charming, full of bookish nonsense and foul language, brave and generous. She's right here. Afraid and exhausted, alone, but fighting.

Everything I know about passive resistance I learned from Micheline. She always appeared to be doing exactly as she was told, but everything she did took twice as long as it should have.

Godless as I am, I pray she's got away with it. It's like ripples in a pond, isn't it? It doesn't stop in one place.

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.

If I am very lucky - I mean if I am clever about it - I will get myself shot. Here, soon.

These trials aren't about revenge. They're about justice. Don't you want justice, Rose Justice?

Róza laughed until she broke off choking. 'Oh, so now that I've got a decent coat I'm supposed to stay in the plane with the crazy taran pilots!'

'Oh, Rózyczka.' I sighed, too. I didn't know how to explain to her that she could stop fighting now. Or stop fighting us, anyway.

the Cup That Cheers

It's like being in love, discovering your best friend.

Hope is treacherous, but how can you live without it?

I am no longer afraid of getting old. Indeed I can't believe I ever said anything so stupid. So childish. So offensive and arrogant.
But mainly, so very, very stupid. I desperately want to grow old.

I, of course, took the opportunity to interpose with pigheaded Wallace pride, 'I am not English, you ignorant Jerry bastard, I am a SCOT.

Don't you ever do that to me."
"You know you'll never make as much of a fool of yourself as Horatio Augustus. So I won't have to.

Incredible. It is just incredible that you can notice something like that when your face is so cold you can't feel it anymore, and you know perfectly well you are surrounded by death, and the only way to stay alive is to endure the howling wind and hold your course. And still the sky is beautiful.

I need complicated railroad journeys and people speaking to me in foreign languages to keep me happy. I want to see the world and write stories about everything I see.

Black Dove, let's write. Let's work on a story. Let's work on Glassland."
"Make me a prisoner in the Fortress of Clarity."
"Got to rescue you.

Tell me "The Subtle Briar" again,' she asked. She knew I would still know it by heart. I whispered to her in the dark.

'When you cut down the hybrid rose,
its blackened stump below the graft
spreads furtive fingers in the dirt.
It claws at life, weaving a raft
of suckering roots to pierce the earth.
The first thin shoot is fierce and green,
a pliant whip of furious briar
splitting the soil, gulping the light.
You hack it down. It skulks between
the flagstones of the garden path
to nurse a hungry spur in shade
against the porch. With iron spade
you dig and drag it from the gravel
and toss it living on the fire.

'It claws up towards the light again
hidden from view, avoiding battle
beyond the fence. Unnoticed, then,
unloved, unfed, it clings and grows
in the wild hedge. The subtle briar
armors itself with desperate thorns
and stubborn leaves – and struggling higher,
unquenchable, it now adorns
itself with blossom, till the stalk
is crowned with beauty, papery white
fine petals thin as chips of chalk
or shaven bone, drinking the light.

'Izabela, Aniela, Alicia, Eugenia,
Stefania, Rozalia, Pelagia, Irena,
Alfreda, Apolonia, Janina, Leonarda,
Czeslava, Stanislava, Vladyslava, Barbara,
Veronika, Vaclava, Bogumila, Anna,
Genovefa, Helena, Jadviga, Joanna,
Kazimiera, Ursula, Vojcziecha, Maria,

It's not unreal to me yet, though it might get that way soon. It still feels very real. And not even horrible
the dead are just the dead. I am convinced that the living people they once were would have been proud of their protective bodies hoodwinking their murderers to save someone else. [..]
But it's not civilized. There is something indecent about it
really foully indecent. The civilized Rose-person in me, who still seems to exist beneath the layers of filth, knows this. [..]
I have become so indifferent about the dead.

Sometimes I feel as if the only thing I can do is write. It helps me think.

Queenie was devoted to careless name-dropping, scattering the details of her privileged upbringing without the faintest hint of modesty or embarrassment (though, after a while Maddie began to realize she only did it with people she liked or people she detested
those who didn't mind and those she didn't care about
anyone in between, or who might have been offended, she was more cautious with).

But I've never despised myself so much as I did that day - she was so small and - so fierce, so beautiful, it was like breaking a hawk's wings, stopping up a clear spring with bricks - digging up roses to make space to park your tank. Pointless and ugly.

I mean, we are all in it together. None of us is innocent; none of us is alone."

"You were both.

Incredible what slender threads you begin to hang your hopes on.

I felt like one who wants to trap and cage a little bird, and after years of waiting and luring and baiting finds that she must do no more than hold out her hand, and the finch lands on her finger and does not fly. You scarcely dare to move. It rests on your hand whole and free, foolishly trusting and infinitely courageous. It will never be more beautiful.

Teach your boy to fly, and he will be safe from spears and antique rifles." "I don't want him to go to war at all!" "When it comes, you will have no choice. The only way to save him is to lift him above the crowd.

Spiderwebs joined together can catch a lion.

Mary Queen of Scots had a little dog, a Skye terrier, that was devoted to her. Moments after Mary was beheaded, the people who were watching saw her skirts moving about and they thought her headless body was trying to get itself to its feet. But the movement turned out to be her dog, which she had carried to the block with her, hidden in her skirts. Mary Stuart is supposed to have faced her execution with grace and courage (she wore a scarlet chemise to suggest she was being martyred), but I don't think she could have been so brave if she had not secretly been holding tight to her Skye terrier, feeling his warm, silky fur against her trembling skin.

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.

Each force in flight is balanced by an opposing force. The opposite of lift is weight. Weight is always trying to pull an object back to earth, so to get something to stay up, lift has to be greater than weight. You'd think your weight would always be the same, but it isn't. When you do aerobatics or go into a dive - like a kite that's plunging into the sand at the beach - there's an increase in gravity, and that makes you weigh more. If you want your heavy kite to stay in the air, you have to increase the lift, as well. Maybe by waiting for a stronger wind. Maybe by finding a windier place to fly your kite. Maddie brought lift back into my life by forcing me outside. So did Bob, who introduced me to the editors of this magazine. So did Fernande, the chambermaid at the Paris Ritz, who gave me her daughter's clothes and made me get dressed and brought me coffee every morning for three weeks.

It's like being raised by wolves -- you don't realize you're not one yourself until someone points it out to you. Sometimes it makes me so mad that not everyone treats me just like another wolf.

Maddie held her lightly, thinking she would let go when her friend stopped crying. But she cried for so long that Maddie fell asleep first. So she didn't ever let go.

How do you ever hold on to anybody?

Which would you rather have––an unlimited supply of Chanel No. 5, or freedom?

God knows what I thought! Your brain does amazing acrobatics when it doesn't want to believe something.

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.

A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.

The anticipation of what they will do to you is every bit as sickening in a dream as when it is really going to happen.

It is so hard trying to say what you mean.

Oh Julie, wouldn't I know if you were dead? Wouldn't I feel it happening, like a jolt of electricity to my heart?

I wish you could go through life without ever caring about anything, without ever getting attached to people and dreams and inaccessible places. It just makes you sad when you can never go back.

There are four forces which work together if you want to put something into the sky and have it stay there. One of these is lift.

Lift is made when the air pressure under a wing is greater than the air pressure over the wing. Then the wing gets pushed upwards. That's how birds fly. That's how kites fly – a kite is basically just a solitary wing. That's how airplanes fly.

But people need lift too. People don't get moving, they don't soar, they don't achieve great heights, without something buoying them up.

Och, they suit you, Queenie! Promise me you'll wear them.

Jamie let go of me. "Shut your mucky gob, man." He stepped close to our fearless leader in the dark, took hold of his jacket by the collar, and in a dead quiet voice that had gone dangerously Scots, threatened heatedly, "Talk like that again wi' these brave lassies listenin' an' Ah'll tear the filthy English tongue frae yer heid, so Ah will.

People are complicated. There is so much more to everybody than you realize. You see someone in school everyday, or at work, in the canteen, and you share a cigarette of a coffee with them, and you talk about the weather or last night's air raid. But you don't talk so much about what was the nastiest thing you ever said to your mother, or how you pretended to be David Balfour, the hero of Kidnapped, for the whole of the year when you were 13, or what you imagine yourself doing with the pilot who looks like Leslie Howard if you were alone in his bunk after a dance.

It never occurred to him that now he was looking at his master, at the one person in all the world who held his fate right between her palms - me, in patched hand-me-downs and untrimmed hair and idiot smile - and that my hatred for him is pure and black and unforgiving. And that I don't believe in God, but if I did, if I did, it would be the God of Moses, angry and demanding and OUT FOR REVENGE ...

It is possible there are some things you want so badly that you will change your life to make them happen.

I love the story of a thing. I love a thing for what it means a thousand times more than for what it's worth.

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.

Have you ever loved anything?"

"Yes. Yes. All the wrong things. The hunt, and darkness, and winter, and you, Godmother.

A poet and a doctor. Maybe I could.
This the first thought I have of it. Maybe I could.

The fuss made over the chickens at the checkpoints is not to be believed. Unlike me they had their own papers.

Must stop. This ink is amazing, it really doesn't smear, even when you cry on it

Things became more civilized all of a sudden. Coffee does that. Or maybe it is women who do that.

But while they stayed down, rolling around and trying to kill each other, Em jumped to her feet.
Her costumes sometimes have little finishing touches that no one can see. She hadn't told me about this one.

Taran. We go down fighting.

I am like a ruined piece of parchment scrawled over and over again with your name, so many times it has become illegible.

Stars poked through like holes in the cloth of the sky and shed no light on anything.

You know, it set you at war with yourself.

If you show this devious little liar one atom's worth of compassion I will have you shot.

We make a sensational team.

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.

Where I fail in accuracy, I hope I make up for it in plausibility.

FLY THE PLANE, MADDIE.

A woman did that.

Equality comes in different forms, and it is a lot harder being a girl in Ethiopia than it was in Pennsylvania.

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.

She gave me a dirty look. Then she broke into the bubbly champagne laugh. She turned and ran, limping but steady. She laughed over he shoulder, letting out the line as I held the kite above my head.
"Run with me, Rose," she cried.

There is no end," I said. "Only the beginning of something else.

Here he comes, moving among the enemies all on his own. Do you see? He acts alone, but he is not alone. He has an army behind him, also, my army; and with our lives we will fight to defend him.

But more often than not the missing face has been sucked into the engines of the Nazi death machine, like an unlucky lapwing hitting the propeller of a Lancaster bomber-nothing left but feathers blowing away in the aircraft's wake, as if those warm wings and beating heart had never existed.

That's why we like to make things pretty; it's just'cause we're so dang sick of cleaning up horrible messes. Same instinct

I have nothing to lose. I am going to dare it. I will aim for the sun.

Nothing like an arcane literary debate with your tyrannical master while you pass the time leading to your execution.

(I really would like to catapult myself back there in time and kick my own teeth in.)

He wept when they told him you were no longer allowed to see him. He WEPT. How much weeping have you done on his account, girl?"

"I wake up screaming every night on his account.

I realized I would be forced to run away from home if someone tried to arrange a marriage for me. I didn't want to think about it.

You can't just sit in a corner weeping or you'll die.

The quick, sudden terror of exploding bombs is not the same as the never-ending, bone-sapping fear of discovery and capture. It never goes away. There isn't ever any relief, never the possibility of an 'All Clear' siren. You always feel a little bit sick inside, knowing the worst might happen at any moment.

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.

It's awful, telling it like this, isn't it? As though we didn't know the ending. As though it could have another ending. It's like watching Romeo drink poison. Every time you see it you get fooled into thinking his girlfriend might wake up and stop him. Every single time you see it you want to shout, 'You stupid ass, just wait a minute,' and she'll open her eyes! 'Oi, you, you twat, open your eyes, wake up! Don't die this time!' But they always do.

You just have to be careful with Momma for a while," Teo told me. "She's broken. Like a jug with a broken handle that you try to glue back together. It looks all right, and it'll still hold water. It's still a good jug. But you better not ever try to pick it up by the handle. You have to wait for the glue to dry, and even then it might not hold.

But she did it. Because you do. It is incredible what you do, knowing you have to. A

And you know, it was like I was breathing my own self back into me to say these word,s to remember that these things existed
the green trees of the eastern woodland at home in North America, their strong and supple branches, sunlight through the trees.

It's impossible to stall a Lizzie.