Quotes from Elizabeth Wein

Truth is the daughter of time, not authority.'" And:

She gave a low and delighted chuckle. Her eyes were black as a moonless December night and reflected the electric lights like stars.

Looking up at the stars and smoking in silence.

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

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

The soaring mountains rose around her, and the poets' waters glittered beneath her in the valleys of memory—hosts of golden daffodils, Swallows and Amazons, Peter Rabbit. She

Patriotism is not enough—I must have no hatred or bitterness for anyone." She

Have you ever loved anything?" Yes. Yes. All the wrong things. The hunt, and darkness, and winter, and you, Godmother.

Hope—you think of hope as a bright thing, a strong thing, sustaining. But it's not. It's the opposite. It's simply this: lumps of stale bread stuck down your shirt. Stale gray bread eked out with ground fish bones, which you won't eat because you're going to give it away, and maybe you'll get a message through to your friend.

In trust and wisdom you can be as far superior to anyone as you dare make yourself.

But mainly, so very, very stupid. I desperately want to grow old.

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

Rose: But when you're in the air, and the sky above you is a sea of gray mist and the land below you is all green, the silver balloons float in between like a school of shining silver whales, bobbing a little in the wind. They are as big as buses, and I and every other pilot have a healthy fear of them because their teathering cables are loaded with explosives to try to snarl up enemy aircraft.

There it was, I realised suddenly, the three of us were friends.

Here you are, painting the town red, alone with two young men you only met just last week in a shady night club playing illegal music in a foreign country. Come on." He pulled at my hand persuasively, I'll bet you know how to Fox-Trot.

the Cup That Cheers

It's not desperation—there is something inhuman in it. That is what I find so creepy. 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.

The ballpoint pen was invented by László Bíró, a Hungarian journalist who fled to Argentina to escape the German occupation of Europe. In 1943 he licensed his invention to the RAF, and the first ballpoint pens were manufactured in Reading, England, by the Miles aircraft manufacturer, to supply pilots with a lasting ink supply!

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.

Writing to you like this makes me feel that you are still alive. It's an illusion I've noticed before—words on a page are like oxygen to a petrol engine, firing up ghosts. It lasts only while the words are in your head. After you put down the paper or the pen, the pistons fall lifeless again.

She tried to, anyway.

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

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.

Follow them," said Goewin, "and listen." So he did.