Book Thief

"'Hair the color of lemons," Rudy read. His fingers touched the words. "You told him about me?"

At first, Liesel could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty from the waiting.

Years ago, when they'd raced on a muddy field, Rudy was a hastily set of bones, with a jagged, rocky smile. In the trees this afternoon he was a giver of bread and teddy bears. He was a triple Hitler Youth athletics champion. He was her best friend.

"Of course I told him about you," Liesel said.
She was saying goodbye and she didn't even know it."


Thank you Rudy Steiner.

Feeding the hungry Jews. Rescuing "The Whistler" from the water. Giving the teddy bear to the dead pilot. You are beautiful. You have set a standard for young men everywhere. Go Jesse Owens. Go Rudy.

Tell the Truth Tell the Truth Tell the Truth

It is hard not to cry sometimes.
For me, it is hard not to cry most of the time.
But there are some things you can't not cry about.
Luckily, I know a good place to cry.
When you are in the shower, you are most likely alone.
You have the noise of the water coming down on you so you can cry as loud as you want.
You can wail and scream and pant, and its alright.
You are alone.
The water may as well be Niagara falls. Piercing, reeling, bloody.
The water also mixes with your tears.
You can pretend that the salt water and real water are both coming out of you.
You can pretend that the rage and rush of the fountain are all of your feelings.
Enough to drown you.
You can release everything you feel when walking through crowds of people.
You can forget your family is moving.
You can forget that you are missing a major piece of you.
You can pretend that the tears are just chemical properties.
Part of your physiology.
Instead of the gut-ripping, intensifying, earth shattering feelings they really are.
Luckily, I know a good place to cry.
When you are in the shower, you are most likely alone.

What We Need

Courage

It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heartwent on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you’ll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you’ll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

-Anne Sexton

I believe it too.