Quotes About Family

There were people of every stature, but amongst them, the poor were the most easily recognised. The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help. They ignore the reality that a new version of the same old problem will be waiting at the end of the trip - the relative you cringe to kiss.

walk into the living room (which doubled as the Hubermanns' bedroom), pull the accordion

Herr Vogel from Heide Strasse. "Made all his money from his father. He throws it away on women

In bed, she read with Papa, who could tell something was wrong. It was the first time in a month that he'd come in and sat with her, and she was comforted, if only slightly. Somehow, Hans Hubermann always knew what to say, when to stay, and when to leave her be. Perhaps Liesel was the one thing he was a true expert at.

a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every day." Papa was schmunzel

Hans Hubermann had her by one hand. Her small suitcase had her by the other.

What about her? Liesel was exercising the blatant right of every person who's ever belonged to a family. It's all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members but they won't let anyone else do it. That's when you get your back up and show loyalty.

A few nights later, however, Hans Hubermann came home with a box of eggs. "Sorry, Mama." He placed them on the table. "They were all out of shoes.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

Keep playing Papa. Papa stopped. He dropped the accordion and his silver eyes continued to rust.

She saw it all so clearly. Her starving mother, her missing father. Kommunisten. Her dead brother.

Papa- the accordionist- and Himmel Street. One could not exist without the other, because for Liesel, both were home.

Papa. She Would not, and could not, look at Papa. Not yet. Not now.

Don't go, papa. Please. Her spoon-holding hand is shaking. First we lost Max. I can't lose you now, too.

When they come and ask you for one of your children," Barbara Steiner explained, to no one in particular, "you're supposed to say yes.

As the kids dance around the front yard under the night sky and the lights, I see something. Lua and Marie are holding hands. They look like they're so happy, just inside this moment, watching the kids and the lights on their old fibro house. Lua kisses her. Just softly on the lips. And she kisses back. Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.

With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man die—a safe merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the color of summer's skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing disappeared completely. "When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist on his face.

When my dad stopped being a héroe to turn into a human being

Soy un imbécil. No, papá. Sólo eres un hombre.

In the hall, Papa hugged her. She desperately needed it.

Rosa was sitting with the accordion, praying. 'Make them come back alive,' she repeated. 'Please, Lord, please. All of them.' Even the wrinkles around her eyes were joining hands.

In mid-February, when she turned ten, Liesel was given a used doll that had a missing leg and yellow hair. "It was the best we could do," Papa apologized. "What are you talking about? She's lucky to have that much," Mama corrected him.

For a moment, it appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder. Good girl, Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat. She did no such thing. Instead, Rosa Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Liesel's nose. It was a necessity as far as she was concerned.

Intanto che i bambini ballano nel giardino, sotto il cielo della notte e sotto le luci di Natale, noto qualcosa. Lua e Marie si stanno tenendo per mano. Sembrano così felici, in questo istante, mentre osservano i loro figli, e le luci sulla vecchia casa di eternit. Lua bacia Marie. Un bacio delicato, sulle labbra. Marie ricambia. A volte, le persone sono belle. Non per l'aspetto. Non per quello che dicono. Semplicemente, per quello che sono.