Quotes About Survival

Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.

The Germans in basements were pitiable, surely, but at least they had a chance. That basement was not a washroom. They were not sent there for a shower. For those people, life was still achievable.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.

Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.

Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day. That was the business of hiding a Jew.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

I even move out onto the front porch and see my own limited view of the world. I want to take that world, and for the first time ever, I feel like I can do it. I've survived everything I've had to so far. I'm still standing here.

You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner. Because the world does not deserve them.

Entonces, ¿se es cobarde por sentir miedo? ¿Se es cobarde por alegrarse de seguir vivo?

They're the ones I can't stand to look at, although on occasion I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.

She was still clutching the book. She was holding desperately on to the words who had saved her life.

Just give hime five more minutes and he would surely fall into the German gutter and die. They would all let him, and they would all watch. Then, one human. Hans Hubermann.

Stars of David were plastered to their shirts, and misery was attached to them as if assigned. Don't forget your misery... In some cases, it grew on them like a vine.

I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner. Because the world did not deserve them.

You could argue that Liesel Meminger has it easy. She did have it easy compared to Max Vandenburg. Certainly, her brother practically died in her arms. Her mother abandoned her. But anything was better than being a Jew.

a young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow

Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner. Because the world does not deserve them.

When the elderly Jew climbed to his feet for the last time and continued on, he looked briefly back. He took a last sad glance at the man who was kneeling now himself, whose back was burning with four lines of fire, whose knees were aching on the road. If nothing else, the old man would die like a human. Or at least with the thought that he was a human.

Life had altered in the wildest possible way, but it was imperative that they act as if nothing at all had happened. Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day. That was the business of hiding a Jew.

A Jew had once saved his life and he couldn't forget that. He couldn't join a party that antagonized people in such a way... Like many of the Jews believed, he didn't think the hatred could last...

Junto a los escombros de Colonia, un grupo de niños recogía contenedores de combustible vacíos arrojados por sus enemigos. Como siempre, yo recogía humanos. Estaba cansada. Y apenas habíamos llegado a la mitad del año.

Again, Himmel Street was a trail of people, and again, Papa left his accordion. Rosa reminded him to take it, but he refused. 'I didn't take it last time,' he explained, 'and we lived.' War clearly blurred the distinction between logic and superstition.

Se aferraba con desesperación a las palabras que le habían salvado la vida.