Papa Death Quotes

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.

Papa loves you with a dying and infernal love," the youngest girl said. "Undying," the eldest girl corrected. "And eternal.

The street to my left was backed up with traffic and I watched the people waiting patiently in the cars. There was almost always a man and a women, staring straight ahead, not talking. It was, finally, for everyone, a matter of waiting. You waited and you waited- for the hospital, the doctor, the plumber, the madhouse, the jail, papa death himself. First the signal red, then the signal was green. The citizens of the world ate food and watched t.v. and worried about their jobs or lack of the same, while they waited.

All his life the example of a syllogism he had studied in Kiesewetter's logic - "Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal" - had seemed to him to be true only in relation to Caius the man, man in general, and it was quite justified , but he wasn't Caius and he wasn't man in general, and he had always been something quite, quite special apart from all other beings; he was Vanya, with Mama, with Papa, with Mitya and Volodya, with his toys and the coachman, with Nyanya, then with Katenka, with all the joys, sorrows, passions of childhood, boyhood, youth. Did Caius know the smell of the striped leather ball Vanya loved so much?: Did Caius kiss his mother's hand like that and did the silken folds of Caius's mother's dress rustle like that for him? Was Caius in love like that? Could Caius chair a session like that? And Caius is indeed mortal and it's right that he should die, but for me, Vanya, Ivan Ilych, with all my feelings and thoughts - for me it's quite different. And it cannot be that I should die. It would be too horrible.

My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

As he started 'Whisky and Gin' and the cheering and the shrieking filled my senses, I thought of Mama, shattered by the war and Papa's death and I wished with all my heart that she could understand how it felt to be us that night - how it felt to be eighteen and unbeaten, eighteen and alive.

Before Jesse could say another word, the bedroom door jerked open and Lucie’s father stood on the threshold, looking alarmed. “Lucie?” he said. “Did you call out? I thought I heard you.” Lucie tensed, but the expression in her father’s blue eyes didn’t change—mild worry mixed with curious puzzlement. He really couldn’t see Jesse. Jesse looked at her and, very irritatingly, shrugged as if to say, I told you so. “No, Papa,” she said. “Everything is all right.” He looked at the manuscript pages scattered all over the rug. “Spot of writer’s block, Lulu?” Jesse raised an eyebrow. Lulu? he mouthed. Lucie considered whether it was possible to die of humiliation. She did not dare look at Jesse.

Take down Arty and Chick and Papa and the twins, and all that's left of the Jar Kin, and, by then, Lily and me. Open our metal jars and pour all the Binewski dust together into that big battered loving cup that first held only Grandpa B. Bolt us to the hood of your traveling machine and take us on the road again.

Mama’s gaze pierced her. As a girl, Minerva had envied her mother’s blue eyes. They’d seemed the color of tropical oceans and cloudless skies. But their color had faded over the years since Papa’s death. Now their blue was the hue of dyed cambric worn three seasons. Or brittle middle-class china. The color of patience nearly worn through.

If what Granma Mary Rommely said is true, then it must be that no one ever dies, really. Papa is gone, but he's still here in many ways. He's here in Neeley who looks just like him and in Mama who knew him so long. He's here in his mother who began him and who is still living. Maybe I will have a boy some day who looks like Papa and has all of Papa's good without the drinking. And that boy will have a boy. And that boy will have a boy. It might be there is no real death.

The days carry the living along; the dead are left behind. It was disconcerting to discover how everything went on without Papa. The sun came up and went down, the roses bloomed, the birds sang, the stars wheeled overhead exactly as they had before

The reason God commands us to love Him with all our heart is not because He is an egomaniac! It is because He knows that anything we love more than Him will betray us. Eventually, we lose it by its death . . . or ours.

Well, plague take it, Aaron,” he said to Papa, “you can’t find a woman that’ll put up with what a hound will. You take a dog like one of them yonder. You can starve them half to death. You can run him till his feet’s wore off to the bloody bones. You can git on a high lonesome drunk and kick him all over the place. But he’s still your dog. Ready to lick your hand or warm your feet on a cold night. Now, show me a woman that’ll do the same.

Desde o princípio que nós não temos feito outra cousa que contradizer as realidade, e aqui estamos, Que irá dizer o papa, Se eu o fosse, perdoe-me deus a estulta vaidade de pensar-me tal, mandaria pôr imediatamente em circulação uma nova tese, a da morte adiada, Sem mais explicações, A igreja nunca se lhe pediu que explicasse fosse o que fosse, a nossa outra especialidade, além da balística, te sido neutralizar, pela fé, o espírito curioso

Papa one told me that, when I lay dying - because someday I will, we will we all - I must not think of the things that frighten me, and I must not think of my pain. I must think of everyone and everything I have ever loved, for if I do that, those thoughts will follow me into death, and that far black place will turn bright and golden, as the world long ago used to be.

Michael leaned in, his voice turning low and heavy. “And how about me?” I swallowed, still studying my drink. What song described him? What band? That was like trying to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life. “Disturbed,” I said, naming the band and still looking down at the glass. He said nothing. Only remained still before finally sitting back and tipping his drink up to his lips. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach, and I kept my breathing even. “Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued, “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush…” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment…” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.

Emily: Oh, Mama, look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I'm dead. You're a grandmother, Mama! Wally's dead, too. His appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it - don't you remember? But, just for a moment now we're all together. Mama, just for a moment we're happy. Let's really look at one another!...I can't. I can't go on.It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another. I didn't realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back -- up the hill -- to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. Good-bye , Good-bye world. Good-bye, Grover's Corners....Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking....and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths....and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth,you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every,every minute? Stage Manager: No. (pause) The saints and poets, maybe they do some. Emily: I'm ready to go back.

Papa had once told her, after Mama’s death, that there were two types of grief. One was the type that crushed you, that broke your soul and shattered your heart, and left you an empty shell. The other was a grief that made you stronger. You rose from it, you sharpened it, and you carried it with you as a piece of your armor. And you made yourself better. In that way, you never truly lost that person. You carried them with you.

Going home in the trolley, Francie held the shoebox in her lap because Mama had no lap now. Francie thought deep thoughts during her ride. 'If what Granma Mary Rommely said is true, then it must be that no one ever dies, really. Papa is gone, but he's still here in many ways. He's here in Neeley who looks just like him and in Mama who knew him so long. He's here in his mother who began him and who is still living. Maybe I will have a boy some day who looks like Papa and has all of Papa's good without the drinking. And that boy will have a boy. And that boy will have a boy. It might be there is no real death.' Her thougths went to McGarrity. 'No one would ever believe there was any part of Papa in him.

Drowning Pool, Three Days Grace, Five Finger Death Punch,” I continued, “Thousand Foot Krutch, 10 Years, Nothing More, Breaking Benjamin, Papa Roach, Bush…” I paused, exhaling nice and slow despite the way my heart drummed. “Chevelle, Skillet, Garbage, Korn, Trivium, In This Moment…” I drifted off, peace settling over me as I looked up at him. “You’re in everything.

Spring came late. For the children, shut in the dark, cold parsonage, adjusting to Aunt and getting over the death that brought her, the winter had seemed endless. But now the rough moor was flecked with racing cloud shadows; the maltreated holly tree had stopped weeping; the green mould on the graves had dried to an unsuggestive grey. The church could never look cheerful. It was too black, and its voice, the bell, always said 'Fu - ner -al... fu - ner- al...' even when it was only calling them to hear one of their Papa's dramatic sermons.

That’s what Papa counting on, no doubt. But romantic love is . . .I don’t wish to say that romantic love itself is a fraud—I’m sure the feelings it inspires are genuine enough, however temporary. But the way it’s held up as this pristine, everlasting joy every woman ought to strive for—when in fact love is more like beef brought over from Argentina on refrigerated ships: It might stay fresh for a while under carefully controlled conditions, but sooner or later it’s qualities will begin to degrade. Love is by and large a perishable good and it is lamentable that young people are asked to make irrevocable, till-death-do-we-part decisions in the midst of a short-lived euphoria.

How many beginnings can a story have, Daddy?" "As many as you can eat, my lamb. But only one ending. Or maybe it's the other way around: one beginning and a whole Easter basket of endings." "Papa, don't be silly... A story has to start somewhere. And then it has to end somewhere. That's the whole point. That's how it is in real life." "But that's not how it is in real life, Rinny. Real life is all beginnings. Days, weeks, children, journeys, marriages, inventions. Even a murder is the beginning of a criminal. Perhaps even a spree. Everything is prologue. Every story has a stutter. It just keeps starting and starting until you decide to shut the camera off. Half the time you don't even realize that what you're choosing for breakfast is the beginning of a story that won't pan out till you're sixty and staring at the pastry that made you a widower. No, love, in real life you can get all the way to death and never have finished one single story. Or never even get one so much as half-begun.

Bodies” by Drowning Pool “Breath of Life” by Florence & The Machine “Bullet With a Name” by Nonpoint “Corrupt” by Depeche Mode “Deathbeds” by Bring Me the Horizon “The Devil In I” by Slipknot “Devil’s Night” by Motionless in White “Dirty Diana” by Shaman’s Harvest “Feed the Fire” by Combichrist “Fire Breather” by Laurel “Getting Away with Murder” by Papa Roach “Goodbye Agony” by Black Veil Brides “Inside Yourself” by Godsmack “Jekyll and Hyde” by Five Finger Death Punch “Let the Sparks Fly” by Thousand Foot Krutch “Love the Way You Hate Me” by Like a Storm “Monster” by Skillet “Pray to God (feat. HAIM)” by Calvin Harris “Silence” by Delirium

You can stay here with your papa and die or you can go with me.... You'll be all right.

Falling in love is like death... they are both facts

John Carstairs smiled sadly. "As long as there is love and memory, there is no true death

I wonder, for example, if the twins’ piano training had given them the Tomaini brand of dexterity with hand jobs? Could a non-musician learn it? Could I? Children stumble through these most critical acts with no real help from the elders who are so anxious to teach them everything else. We were given rules and taboos for the toilet, the sneeze, the eating of an artichoke. Papa taught us all a particular brush stroke for cleaning our teeth, a special angle for the pen in our hand, the exact words for greeting elders, with fine-tuned distinctions for male, female, show folk, customers, or tradesmen. The twins and Arty were taught to design an act, whether it lasted three minutes or thirty, to tease, coax, and startle a crowd, to build to crescendo and then disappear in the instant of climax. From what I have come to understand of life, this show skill, this talk-’em, sock-’em, knock-’em-flat information, is as close as we got to that ultimate mystery. I throw death aside. Death is not mysterious. We all understand death far too well and spend chunks of life resisting, ignoring, or explaining away that knowledge. But this real mystery I have never touched, never scratched. I’ve seen the tigers with their jaws wide, their fangs buried in each other’s throats, and their shadowed hides sizzling, tip to tip. I’ve seen the young norms tangled and gasping in the shadows between booths. I suspect that, even if I had begun as a norm, the saw-toothed yearning that whirls in me would bend me and spin me colorless, shrink me, scorch every hair from my body, and all invisibly so only my red eyes would blink out glimpses of the furnace thing inside. In fact, I smell the stench of longing so clearly in the streets that I’m surprised there are not hundreds exactly like me on every corner.

I love him, Papa. I forgave him the moment he came back to me. I would love him still, even if he left me again. I would love him through several lifetimes, I think,” Fox determined, resigning himself to the truth, “and I would love him in every world, if he asked.

And I can promise you one thing, (...) that as she kneeled next to Hans Hubermann, she watched him stand and play the accordion. He stood and strapped it on in the alps of broken houses. There were silver eyes. There was a cigarette slouched on his lips. He even made a mistake and laughed in lovely hindsight. The bellows breathed and the tall man played for Liesel Meminger one last time as the sky was slowly taken from the stove. Keep playing, Papa. Papa stopped. He dropped the accordion and his silver eyes continued to rust. There was only a body now (...)

Minus: Papa, I'm scared. When I was hugging Karin in the boat, reality burst open. Do you understand? David: I do. Minus: Reality burst open, and I tumbled out. It's like a dream. Anything can happen. Anything. David: I know. Minus: I can't live in this new world. David: Yes, you can. But you must have something to hold on to. Minus: What would that be? A god? Give me proof of God. You can't. David: Yes, I can. But you have to listen carefully. Minus: Yes, I need to listen. David: I can only give you a hint of my own hope. It is to know that love exists as something real in the human world. Minus: A special kind of love, I suppose? David: All kinds, Minus. The highest and the lowest, the most absurd and the most sublime. All kinds of love. Minus: And the longing for love? David: Longing and denial. Trust and distrust. Minus: Then love is the proof? David: I don't know if love is proof of God's existence, or if love is God himself. Minus: To you, love and God are the same thing. David: That thought helps me in my emptiness and despair. Minus: Tell me more, Papa. David: Suddenly the emptiness turns into abundance, and despair into life. It's like a reprieve, Minus, from a death sentence. Minus: Papa... If it is as you say, then Karin is surrounded by God, since we love her. David: Yes. Minus: Can that help her? David: I believe so. Minus: ... Papa, would you mind if I go for a run? David: Off you go. I'll make dinner. See you in an hour. Minus: ... Papa spoke to me.

Do you know where we are Papa? the boy said. Sort of. How sort of? Well. I think we're about two hundred miles from the coast. As the crow flies. As the crow flies? Yes. It means going in a straight line. Are we going to get there soon? Not real soon. Pretty soon. We're not going as the crow flies. Because crows don't have to follow roads? Yes. They can go wherever they want. Yes. Do you think there might be crows somewhere? I dont know. But what do you think? I think it's unlikely. Could they fly to Mars or someplace? No. They couldnt. Because it's too far? Yes. Even if they wanted to. Even if they wanted to. What if they tried and they just got half way or something and then they were too tired. Would they fall back down? Well. They really couldnt get halfway because they'd be in space and there's not any air in space so they wouldnt be able to fly and besides it would be too cold and they'd freeze to death. Oh. Anyway they wouldnt know where Mars was. DO we know where Mars is? Sort of. If we spaceship could we go there? Well. If you had a really good spaceship and you had people to help you I suppose you could go. Would there be good and stuff when you got there? No. There's nothing there. Oh. They sat there for a long time. They sat on their folded blankets and watched the road in both directions. No wind. Nothing. After a while the boy said: There's not any crows. Are there? No.

And dreamed about death in the staggering particular, death as if death were still never yet heard of while something was ringing, she gasping, dissolving, slipping off into void while thinking over and over, I am not going to be, I will die, I won’t be, and forever and ever, oh, Papa, don’t let them, oh, don’t let them do it, don’t let me be nothing forever and melting, unraveling, ringing, the ringing—

You've given me everything I need of you-thanks to you I have all my heart desires, all I thought I might never have. All I need for a wonderful, fulfilling future. And I nearly lost it all." She held his gaze but was wise enough not to interrupt. If she had... He drew breath and forged on, "Nearly dying clarified things. When you stand on the border between life and death, the truly important things are easy to discern. One of the things I saw and finally understood was that only fools and cowards leave the truth of love unsaid. Only the weak leave love unacknowledged." Holding her gaze, all but lost in the shimmery blue of her eyes, he raised her hand to his lips, gently kissed. "So, my darling Heather, even though you already know it, let me put the truth-my truth-into words. I love you. With all my heart, to the depths of my soul. And I will love you forever, until the day I die." Her smile lit his world. "Just as well." Happiness shone in her eyes. She pressed his fingers. "Because I plan to be with you, by your side, every day for the rest of your life, and in spirit far beyond. I'm yours for all eternity." Smiling, he closed his hand about hers. "Mine to protect for our eternity." Yes. Neither said the word, yet the sense of it vibrated in the air all around them. A high-pitched giggle broke the spell, had them both looking along the path. TO Lucilla and Marcus, who slipped out from behind a raised bed and raced toward them. Reaching them, laughing with delight, the pair whooped and circled. Heather glanced to left and right, trying to keep the twins in sight, uncertain of what had them so excited. So exhilarated. Almost as if they were reacting to the emotions coursing through her, and presumably Breckenridge. Her husband-to-be. "You're getting married!" Lucilla crowed. Catching Lucilla's eyes as the pair slowed their circling dance, Heather nodded. "Yes, we are. And I rather think you two will have to come down in London to be flower girl and page boy." Absolute delight broke across Lucilla's face. She looked at her brother. "See? I told you-the Lady never makes a mistake, and if you do what shetells you, you get a reward." "I suppose." Marcus looked up at Breckenridge. "London will be fun." He switched his gaze to Lucilla. "Come on! Let's go and tell Mama and Papa.

It is necessary to go through life a little blunted, a little cloaked, how else to bear even a single day? The horror and the glory would overwhelm me. Papa used to talk about the story of the burning bush when God appears to Moses as a roar of fire. Moses asks to see God face to face and God tells him that to do so, even partially, even for a second, would kill him with its beauty and its power. ‘Who shall look on God and live?’ To Papa this was the central paradox of his religion, for there is no life without God and yet to approach God means death.

Before his death your father begged a promise from me. He made me swear that I would look after you and your mother.” “And you have,” she insisted. He held up his hand to prevent her from saying more. “And made me give my word that I would never touch you in any manner other than brotherly.” Another rueful smile. “So you see, I preferred being able to pretend that I had kept my promise rather than face the truth of breaking my word.” He broke her heart, damn him. “He made me promise not to become attached to you,” she confided, continuing with the evening’s truthful trend. “It seems Papa saw something that neither one of us did.” “Oh, I saw it. I’ve seen it since you were eighteen years old and we danced together at some insipid ball. I don’t remember where it was, or the day of the week, but I remember that you wore a pale tea-colored gown with Belgian lace, and that you had pearls in your hair.” She couldn’t breathe. The tilt of his lips, the bleakness of his gaze, it was all too horrible. “And you wore a red cravat,” she whispered. “I thought you looked so rakish in it.” “I was rakish,” he admitted. “Your father knew that.

The greatest injustice in the universe is not that there are people dying of AIDS or people starving to death, even as you read this. It’s not that there have been over fifty million abortions in America since Roe v. Wade. It’s not even that there are twenty-seven million human slaves in the world today. These things are absolutely awful. They are worthy of judgment, and I believe they break the heart of God. But these, even combined, are not the greatest injustice. The greatest injustice in the universe is that there are human beings who do not worship Jesus Christ.

The Russian armies drove forward in the same desperate fashion in which they had retreated in the previous year, numbed by daily horrors. Victory at Kursk meant little to a soldier such as Private Ivanov of the 70th Army, who wrote despairingly to his family in Irkutsk: “Death, and only death awaits me. Death is everywhere here. I shall never see you again because death, terrible, ruthless and merciless is going to cut short my young life. Where shall I find strength and courage to live through all this? We are all terribly dirty, with long hair and beards, in rags. Farewell for ever.” Private Samokhvalov was in equally wretched condition: “Papa and Mama, I will describe to you my situation, which is bad. I am concussed. Very many of my unit have been killed—the senior lieutenant, the regimental commander, most of my comrades; now it must be my turn. Mama, I have not known such fear in all my eighteen years. Mama, please pray to God that I live. Mama, I read your prayer … I must admit frankly that at home I did not believe in God, but now I think of him forty times a day. I don’t know where to hide my head as I write this. Papa and Mama, farewell, I will never see you again, farewell, farewell, farewell.

Maiha “Allow me to introduce you to the Children of Mars. On lead guitar and eight barreled Calliope Gatlin, Colonel Fujiyama. On bass and manning the double-barreled thirty millimeter PPC's we have Major Howard. Singing backup and key boards we have Fight Captain Benz with a lovely ten millimeter rapid fire gauss rifle. Her lovely partner Captain Martin on drums with her ten millimeter Hell-bore pulse laser rifle. And singing lead and front man, a true artist with a bang from the Castile sniper rifle, our Big Daddy, Papa of Death and Destruction, the one, the only, the man, the myth, the legend, Lord James Nakatoma- Bailey.” When I finished Alice was giggling out loud.

I myself," said Gibbon, "am slightly underdone in the personal worthlessness line. It was Papa's fault. He used no irony. The communications mix offered by the parent to the child is as you know twelve percent do this, eighty-two percent don't do that, and six percent huggles and endearments. That is standard. Now, to avoid boring himself or herself to death during this monition the parent enlivens the discourse with wit, usually irony of the cheaper sort. The irony ambigufies the message, but more importantly establishes in the child the sense of personal lack-of-worth. Because the child understands that one who is talked to in this way is not much of a something. Ten years of it goes a long way. Fifteen is better. That is where Pap fell down. He eschewed irony.

In the sudden silence, Andrew grabbed my hand and shook it. “I’ll miss you, Drew. You’ve been a regular gent.” It was hard not to cry, but I was determined to show Andrew I could be as tough as he was. “I’ll miss you too,” I admitted. “And Hannah and Theo and Mama and Papa. I never had a brother or a sister or a dog of my own before.” “But you won’t miss Edward. He’ll be there waiting for you.” Andrew meant it as a joke, but neither of us laughed. Suddenly serious, I gripped his shoulders tightly and stared into his eyes. “How will I know what happens to you?” “Look in the graveyard,” Andrew said in a melancholy voice. “If you don’t see my tombstone, you’ll know I didn’t die.” He laughed to show me he was joking again, but death was even less funny than the old man in the wheelchair.

The sun goes down and it's night-time in New Orleans. The moon rises, midnight chimes from St. Louis cathedral, and hardly has the last note died away than a gruesome swampland whistle sounds outside the deathly still house. A fat Negress, basket on arm, comes trudging up the stairs a moment later, opens the door, goes in to the papaloi, closes it again, traces an invisible mark on it with her forefinger and kisses it. Then she turns and her eyes widen with surprise. Papa Benjamin is in bed, covered up to the neck with filthy rags. The familiar candles are all lit, the bowl for the blood, the sacrificial knife, the magic powders, all the paraphernalia of the ritual are laid out in readiness, but they are ranged about the bed instead of at the opposite end of the room as usual. The old man's head, however, is held high above the encumbering rags, his beady eyes gaze back at her unflinchingly, the familiar semicircle of white wool rings his crown, his ceremonial mask is at his side. 'I am a little tired, my daughter,' he tells her. His eyes stray to the tiny wax image of Eddie Bloch under the candles, hairy with pins, and hers follow them. 'A doomed one, nearing his end, came here last night thinking I could be killed like other men. He shot a bullet from a gun at me. I blew my breath at it, it stopped in the air, turned around, and went back in the gun again. But it tired me to blow so hard, strained my voice a little.' A revengeful gleam lights up the woman's broad face. 'And he'll die soon, papaloi?' 'Soon,' cackles the weazened figure in the bed. The woman gnashes her teeth and hugs herself delightedly. ("Papa Benjamin" aka "Dark Melody Of Madness")

Andrew, what are you doing out of bed? You’re ill, you need to rest.” I crouched beside the ring, speechless with surprise, but Andrew jumped to his feet. “Hannah,” he cried, “Hannah.” Although he was right in front of her, Hannah didn’t see her brother. She walked through him as if he didn’t even exist. “I’ve been lying awake worrying about you,” she said to me. “When I heard noises, I thought you and Theo were up here. But you’re all alone.” Andrew clung to his sister. “He’s not alone, I’m with him. Look at me, Hannah, please look at me.” Unaware of anything but the cold, Hannah shivered. “Lord,” she whispered, “I’m freezing. You’ll catch your death in this draft, Andrew.” When I neither spoke nor moved, Hannah dropped to her knees and gazed into my eyes. “You’re in a trance,” she whispered. “For heaven’s sake, wake up.” Finding my voice at last, I said, “Can’t you see him?” “See who?” Pale with fright, Hannah stared at me. I pointed at Andrew. “He’s standing right in front of you!” “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Hannah grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “There’s no one in this attic but you and me.” Andrew was crying now, hanging on to his sister, begging her to see him. But Hannah was too scared by my behavior to see or hear anything but me. Deaf to Andrew’s sobs, she pulled me to my feet. “You must go back to bed.” “No,” I shouted. “Not yet! I have to finish this game.” I couldn’t leave Andrew, not now, not when I was finally winning. Hannah released me so suddenly I staggered backward. “I’ll fetch Papa!” she cried. Andrew threw himself at her. “Hannah, stop, you’re ruining everything!” I grabbed his arm. “Let her go. We don’t have much time!

‌* When the coughing stopped, there was nothing but the nothingness of life moving on with a shuffle, or a near-silent twitch. ‌* Mistakes, mistakes, it’s all I seem capable of at times ‌*No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment. ‌*It’s much easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it ‌*When death captures me,” the boy vowed, “he will feel my fist on his face.”. ‌*he’d turned for one last look at his family as he left the apartment. Perhaps then the guilt would not have been so heavy. No final goodbye. No final grip of the eyes. Nothing but goneness. ‌ *Wrecked, but somehow not torn into pieces. ‌*Life had altered in the wildest possible way, but it was imperative that they act as if nothing at all had happened. ‌*“If we gamble on a Jew,” said Papa soon after, “I would prefer to gamble on a live one,” and from that moment, a new routine was born. *‌you should know it yourself—a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.” ‌*The fire was nothing now but a funeral of smoke, dead and dying, simultaneously. ‌*Even death has a heart.. ‌* In truth, I think he was afraid. Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief’s kiss. He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them. ‌*There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone. *‌That damn snowman,” she whispered. “I bet it started with the snowman—fooling around with ice and snow in the cold down there.” Papa was more philosophical. “Rosa, it started with Adolf.” *‌There were broken bodies and dead, sweet hearts. Still, it was better than the gas ‌*They were French, they were Jews, and they were you. ‌*Sometimes she sat against the wall, longing for the warm finger of paint to wander just once more down the side of her nose, or to watch the sandpaper texture of her papa’s hands. If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter and bread with only the scent of jam spread out on top of it. *‌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. ‌*Silence was not quiet or calm, and it was not peace. ‌*“I should have known not to give the man some bread. I just didn’t think.” “Papa, you did nothing wrong.” “I don’t believe you. ‌ * I’m an idiot.” No, Papa. You’re just a man.. ‌*What someone says and what happened are usually two different things ‌* despised by his homeland, even though he was born in it ‌ *“Of course I told him about you,” Liesel said. She was saying goodbye and she didn’t even know it. ‌*Say something enough times and you never forget it ‌*robbery of his life? ‌*Those kinds of souls always do—the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, “I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come.” Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places ‌*One could not exist without the other, because for Liesel, both were home. Yes, that’s what Hans Hubermann was for Liesel Meminger ‌*DEATH AND LIESEL It has been many years since all of that, but there is still plenty of work to do. I can promise you that the world is a factory. The sun stirs it, the humans rule it. And I remain. I carry them away.

But now, strange as it seems, a peasant's small, scrawny. light brown nag is harnessed to such a large cart, one of those horses he's seen it often that sometimes strain to pull some huge load of firewood or hay. Especially if the cart has gotten stuck in the mud or a rut. The peasants always whip the horse so terribly, so very painfully, sometimes even across its muzzle and eyes, and he would always feel so sorry, so very sorry to witness it that he would feel like crying, and his mother would always lead him away from the window. Now things are getting extremely boisterous: some very large and extremely drunken peasants in red and blue shirts, their heavy coats slung over their shoulders. come out of the tavern shouting, singing. and playing balalaikas. “Git in. everyone git in!" shouts one peasant, a young lad with a thick neck and a fleshy face, red as a beet, “I'll take ya all. Git in!" But there is a burst of laughter and shouting: “That ol’ nag ain't good for nothin'!" “Hey, Mikolka, you must be outta yer head to hitch that ol' mare to yer cart!" “That poor ol' horse must be twenty if she's a day, lads!" “Git in, I'll take ya all!" Mikolka shouts again,jumping in first, taking hold of the reins, and standing up straight in the front of the cart. “Matvei went off with the bay," he cries from the cart, “and as for this ol' mare here, lads, she's only breakin' my heart: I don't give a damn ifit kills ’er; she ain't worth her salt. Git in, I tell ya! I'll make 'er gallop! She’ll gallop, all right!" And he takes the whip in his hand, getting ready to thrash the horse with delight. "What the hell, git in!" laugh several people in the crowd. "You heard 'im, she'll gallop!" “I bet she ain't galloped in ten years!" "She will now!" “Don't pity 'er, lads; everyone, bring yer whips, git ready!" "That's it! Thrash 'er!" They all clamber into Mikolka's cart with guffaws and wisecracks. There are six lads and room for more. They take along a peasant woman, fat and ruddy. She's wearing red calico, a headdress trimmed with beads, and fur slippers; she‘s cracking nuts and cackling. The crowd’s also laughing; as a matter of fact, how could one keep from laughing at the idea of a broken down old mare about to gallop, trying to pull such a heavy load! Two lads in the cart grab their whips to help Mikolka. The shout rings out: “Pull!" The mare strains with all her might, but not only can’t she gallop, she can barely take a step forward; she merely scrapes her hooves, grunts, and cowers from the blows of the three whips raining down on her like hail. Laughter redoubles in the cart and among the crowd, but Mikolka grows angry and in his rage strikes the little mare with more blows, as if he really thinks she’ll be able to gallop. “Take me along, too, lads!" shouts someone from the crowd who’s gotten a taste of the fun. “Git in! Everyone, git inl" cries Mikolka. “She'll take everyone. I‘ll flog 'er!" And he whips her and whips her again; in his frenzy, he no longer knows what he’s doing. “Papa, papa," the boy cries to his father. “Papa, what are they doing? Papa, they‘re beating the poor horse!" “Let's go, let's go!" his father says. “They’re drunk, misbehaving, those fools: let’s go. Don't look!" He tries to lead his son away. but the boy breaks from his father‘s arms; beside himself, he runs toward the horse. But the poor horse is on her last legs. Gasping for breath, she stops, and then tries to pull again, about to drop. “Beat 'er to death!" cries Mikolka. ”That's what it's come to. I‘ll flog ‘er!" “Aren't you a Christian. you devil?" shouts one old man from the crowd. “Just imagine, asking an ol' horse like that to pull such a heavy load,” adds another. “You‘ll do 'er in!" shouts a third. “Leave me alone! She’s mine! I can do what I want with 'er! Git in, all of ya! Everyone git in I'm gonna make 'er gallop!

We’re the battling bastards of Bataan. No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces. No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces. And nobody gives a damn.

All of sudden it hit Mariah like a bolt of thunder that it was Bannie's death why they got beat. It was the land...the land! She looked to Jacob - to his papa. Both of them looking like lightning just struck.

This essential difference had always been between them. Vianne the rule follower and Isabelle the rebel. Even in girlhood, in grief, they had expressed their emotions differently. Vianne had gone silent after Maman’s death, tried to pretend that Papa’s abandonment didn’t wound her, while Isabelle had thrown tantrums and run away and demanded attention. Maman had sworn that one day they would be the best of friends. Never had this prediction seemed less likely. In this, right now, Isabelle was right. Vianne would be constantly afraid of what her sister would say or do around the captain, and truthfully, Vianne hadn’t the strength for it.

Vianne had been so helpless after Maman’s death. When Papa had sent them away, to live in this small town, beneath the cold, stern eyes of a woman who had shown the girls no love, Vianne had … wilted. In another time, she might have shared with Isabelle what they had in common, how undone she’d been by Maman’s death, how Papa’s rejection had broken her heart. Or how he treated her at sixteen when she’d come to him, pregnant and in love … and been slapped across the face and called a disgrace. How Antoine had pushed Papa back, hard, and said, I’m going to marry her. And Papa’s answer: Fine, she’s all yours. You can have the house. But you’ll take her squalling sister, too. Vianne closed her eyes. She hated to think about all of that; for years, she’d practically forgotten it. Now, how could she push it aside? She had done to Isabelle exactly what their father had done to them. It was the greatest regret of Vianne’s life.

Going home in the trolley, Francie held the shoebox in her lap because mama had no lap now. Francie thought deep thoughts during the ride. "If what granma Mary Rommely said is true, then it must be that no one ever dies, really. Papa is gone, but he's still here in many ways. He's here in Neeley who looks just like him and in mama who knew him so long. He's here in his mother who began him and who is still living. Maybe I will have a boy some day who looks like papa and has all of papa's good without the drinking. And that boy will have a boy. And that boy will have a boy. It might be there is no real death.

Sarah lifted her head. “Did we make it across the frontier?” Blood bubbled up from her colorless lips, slid down her chin. “We did,” Rachel said. “We did. We are all safe now.” “I was brave,” Sarah said, “wasn’t I?” “Oui,” Rachel said brokenly. “So brave.” “I’m cold,” Sarah murmured. She shivered. Sarah drew in a shuddering breath, exhaled slowly. “We are going to go have some candy now. And a macaron. I love you, Sarah. And Papa loves you. You are our star.” Rachel’s voice broke. She was crying now. “Our heart. You know that?” “Tell Sophie I…” Sarah’s eyelids fluttered shut. She drew a last, shuddering breath and went still. Her lips parted, but no breath slipped past them. Vianne knelt down beside Sarah. She felt for a pulse and found none. The silence turned sour, thick; all Vianne could think about was the sound of this child’s laughter and how empty the world would be without it. She knew about death, about the grief that ripped you apart and left you broken forever. She couldn’t imagine how Rachel was still breathing. If this was any other time, Vianne would sit down beside Rachel, take her hand, and let her cry. Or hold her. Or talk. Or say nothing. Whatever Rachel needed, Vianne would have moved Heaven and Earth to provide; but she couldn’t do that now. It was another terrible blow in all of this: They couldn’t even take time to grieve.

Preacher. I gotta ask you something. What the hell’s eating you?” “What do you mean?” he replied, frowning. Jack shook his head in frustration. “You have this beautiful little family under your roof. You watch over them like a papa bear. That kid adores you, you have a sweet, cuddly young beauty to knock boots with every night, and you’re depressed. I mean, you are obviously depressed!” “I’m not depressed,” he said somewhat meanly. “And I haven’t knocked boots with anybody.” “What?” Jack said, confused. “What?” “You heard me. I haven’t touched her.” “She have issues?” Jack asked. “Like the abusive ex or something?” “No,” Preacher said. “I have issues.” He laughed. “Yeah? You don’t want her? Because she—” “I don’t know what to do,” Preacher said suddenly. Then he averted his eyes. “Sure you do, Preacher. You take off your clothes, she takes off her clothes...” Preacher snapped his head back. “I know where all the parts go. I’m not so sure she’s ready for that....” “Preacher, my man, do you have eyes? She looks at you like she wants to—” “Jesus, she scares me to death! I’m afraid I’ll hurt her,” he said, then shook his head miserably. What the hell, he thought. Jack’s my best friend. If I can’t tell Jack, I can’t tell anyone. But he said, “You say anything about this and I swear to God, I’ll kill you.” Jack just laughed at him. “Why would I tell anyone? Preacher, you’re not going to hurt her.” “What if I do? She’s been through so much. She’s so soft. Small. And I’m—hell, I’m just a big, clumsy lug.” “No, you’re not,” Jack said, laughing again. “Preacher, you don’t even break the yolks. You’re—well, you’re big, that’s for sure.” He chuckled. “You’re probably big all over,” he said, shaking his head. “Believe me, women don’t mind that.” Preacher’s chin went up and he frowned, not sure whether he’d just been complimented or insulted. “Listen,

There will be no beautiful widow with Persian eyes sitting at your grave. And teary-eyed kids won't be asking: "Papa, papa, can you hear us?

Eyes closed, he let his head fall forward so the water rushed through his hair and down his neck. He didn’t feel anything yet. No grief. No fear. The adrenaline had settled, and now he was just… numb. The rest would be along once the truth settled in, but at the moment, he felt nothing. Now what? Death was part of this life, but the body count had been rising at an alarming rate for the last few months. And bullets were coming unnervingly close, hitting not just the family, but his family. His uncle and cousins were all he had left, and any of them—hell, Dom himself—could be in the crosshairs at any moment. Without Biaggio, Corrado was the closest thing Dom still had to a father. He was a brutal man. He’d traumatized Dom, taken people and safety and sanity away from him, but he’d also been the man who’d taken Dom in and raised him, even after he’d been the one to calmly end Papa’s life. “It’s business, Domenico,” Corrado had told him while they’d watched men dump dirt on Papa’s still-warm body. “It’s business, and it’s family, and families and businesses are only as strong as their weakest members.” “But…” Dom had been too young to make sense of any of that. Much too young to have seen the things he’d seen. “Papa wasn’t weak.” “No.” Corrado had squeezed his shoulder, grimacing with sympathy. “But he did things that weakened all of us. He had to go, son, because if he stayed, many other men would have died. Do you understand?” More

When Papa’s mother was diagnosed with cancer and his daddy couldn’t deal with the death of his wife, he killed himself in front of Papa. It was safe to say Papa hadn’t been the same since. Andre,

Papa continually extends His hand and invites all of His children into His good and perfect plan for their lives, even in the midst of our poor choices. Grace in its most raw and pure form, unmarred by religion’s death grip, almost sounds wrong or too good to be true. But the more you hear the truth of genuine grace, the more you are set free to enjoy your Papa who so enjoys you!

You will marry Dagr. You will act as befits the daughter of Zeus and a Queen of Asgard. If at any time, I sense Dagr’s unhappiness with this union or you, I myself will destroy Soren. If you disobey me, the same. I see defiance in your eyes, Clotho. And arrogance. I can't kill him but I can make him wish for death. His quality of life depends on your performance and your obedience to your loving Papa.

Mourning Papa became her profession, her identity, her persona. Years later, when I was thinking about the piece of politics inside of which we had all lived (Marxism and the Communist Party), and I realized that people who worked as plumbers, bakers, or sewing-machine operators had thought of themselves as thinkers, poets, and scholars because they were members of the Communist Party, I saw that Mama had assumed her widowhood in much the same way. It elevated her in her own eyes, made of her a spiritually significant person, lent richness to her gloom and rhetoric to her speech. Papa’s death became a religion that provided ceremony and doctrine. A woman-who-has-lost-the-love-of-her-life was now her orthodoxy: she paid it Talmudic attention. Papa had never been so real to me in life as he was in death. Always a somewhat shadowy figure, benign and smiling, standing there behind Mama’s dramatics about married love, he became and remained what felt like the necessary instrument of her permanent devastation. It was almost as though she had lived with Papa in order that she might arrive at this moment. Her distress was so all-consuming it seemed ordained.

But in my heart I knew. In that brief glimpse of my mama I had seen the black swellings on the side of her throat and the ruby-red flush of her cheeks, hot with fever. I knew why my father would not let me in. He was trying to save my life. Mama had the black plague. I pressed myself up to the door listening in horror to my mother’s wails on the other side. “Mama,” I sobbed. “Mama, I am here. I am here.” The black plague is a brutal death, and, in my mother’s case, it was mercifully swift. Very soon her screams became pitiful whimpers and moans, and then these too grew weaker until they ceased altogether. I slumped down and cried her name again and again. I knew there was nothing I could do. By the time the dawn’s clear light broke it was over. Mama was dead. “May I see her?” I begged my father when he opened the door at last. “Please, Papa?” My father shook his head. “Even in death she may pass the sickness on to you,

It is far more likely Mary found a new position and simply decided to leave us. I suspect we'll get a letter from her in the mail eventually asking for her back wages." "Which you won't pay." "Which Papa won't pay. He won't be happy about this at all. I cannot think of a way to conceal what has happened from him. He'll be sure to blame me in some fashion." "It is hardly your fault if one of the maids decides to change employment, Lucy," Anna said robustly. "You'll just have to stand up for yourself." Lucy bit back her hasty reply. It was easy for Anna to suggest she should be more forthright with their father when she was his favorite child, and not the oldest daughter of the house whose duty had been laid out for her from the cradle. Even now, when she knew her father's air of authority hid only his appalling selfishness, she still hadn't found a way to break free of his oft-expressed expectations. What had once been unquestioning obedience had slowly turned into a bitter and unexpressed resentment she had to conceal to avoid telling him her true feelings.

It isn't fair, Anna. I have all the responsibilities of the lady of the house, and none of the power. Mrs. Fielding knows I can't get rid of her unless Papa is agreeable. She treats me with no respect at all." "I know," Anna agreed. "She is positively uncivil to you." "I will have to speak to him." Lucy stopped walking. "He won't like it but I refuse to be treated like this.

The plan was for Mr. Hathaway to invite the Harringtons to dinner and to take her papa aside and broach the idea of Lucy accompanying Sophia to London next spring. Lucy knew that her father would take more note of the idea if a gentleman he respected proposed it.

In Memory Of My Daughter Clear on the night of my spirit, To me shines the glance of a star, It is she! My heart's little maiden! From her glance gleams something afar, Of victory, deathless, eternal- Something that musing, misgiving, Pierces the essence of being! It cannot be! It cannot be! She lives- soon she will waken; straightway Will ope her pretty eyes,- glad she Will prattle merry, laughing gay! And when in tears beholding me- Will smiling, kissing, cry consoling, 'Papa- it is but playing- See! I live,- yes! Leave off mourning!' But cold and mute she lies, alas! And motionless. Now in her coffin she lies, Silent amid scented flowers- Ah what mute spirits in white O'er her corpse circle and hover? Are they the visions of bliss? Are they all spirits of hope? That during life lured her on- Those to whom secretly oft She had entrusted her soul? They that accompanied her e'er, Faithful in forest and field? Silent they circle my child, In tearful anguish embraced- Yet little actress she lies, Smiling, closed lashes beneath; See, she is laughing in truth- thou most merciless Death! In Memory Of My Daughter

That is a gun you have in your purse?” “A knife.” “Oh, for God’s sake.” He switched seats and settled directly beside her on the forward-facing seat. “Go ahead, try to stab me.” “You deserve to be deflated, but why attempt a violent felony?” “So I can show you why you ought not to carry such a thing.” “But my papa…” “Is a duke, who hasn’t been in a hand-to-hand brawl since his duchess got her mitts on him three decades ago. Pull the knife.” “But what if I hurt you?” “I want you to try to hurt me, try your absolute—” She got the thing free of her purse, at least, but he had her wrist pinned up against the squabs, his body forcing hers back against the seat so snugly he could feel her breathing. “I take your point,” she said, her breath fanning past his ear. He wasn’t finished. He eased the pressure on her wrist just a hair, and while she perhaps thought the demonstration over, he brought the knifepoint up right under her chin, making further speech for her perilous. “The gun,” he said, “will at least make a hell of a noise and bring help. If both barrels are spent, it’s harmless. The knife can be turned on you over and over again, and if you don’t bleed to death, then infection will likely carry you off eventually.” “I understand, Mr. Hazlit.” He

Thinking about Noah made it difficult to remember that there would never again be a man in her life. Ever, ever, ever. She’d been hurt by men too often. Okay, there hadn’t been many, but the three major contenders had been totally horrible. Death, prison and weirdness. If there’d been even one lucky break where love was concerned, she might consider another stab at it down the line a bit, but not likely. She had already proven she didn’t know how to pick a man, and it was doubtful she could start now. But he was very attractive, the preacher man. Six feet, ink-black hair with a lock that fell over his brow sometimes. Expressive dark brows over the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen. And lips that just screamed Come to Papa. Then there was that smile. Or, all those smiles—the one that indulged, the one that mocked, the one that burst out of him before he could stop it. He couldn’t hide the fact that for a devout sort of guy there was some bad boy in him that he was barely keeping under control. His smile came with dimples that almost brought her to her knees. Six feet of delicious man with strong shoulders, long legs and big, hard hands. Yeah, he could get her in trouble. But

What is there to imagine with a gun?" asked Papa . . . . "Something dead," Papa said more quietly. "That's what there is to imagine with a gun.

Papa glared at Sweyn. “The death of any living thing, be it a plant or an animal or a person is never ridiculous,” he said. “You will march in that funeral procession with your brothers.

Jon,” she was saying to the boy across the table from her. “I am in so much pain from stubbing my toe! I need aspirin.” “What’s aspirin?” asked the boy, sounding panicked. He was obviously Nephilim, through and through and through. Magnus could tell without seeing his runes. In fact, he was prepared to bet the boy was a Cartwright. Magnus had known several Cartwrights through the centuries. The Cartwrights all had such distressingly thick necks. “You buy it in a pharmacy,” said the girl. “No, don’t tell me, you don’t know what a pharmacy is either. Have you ever left Idris in your whole life?” “Yes!” said Jon, possibly Cartwright. “On many demon-hunting missions. And once Mama and Papa took me to the beach in France!” “Amazing,” said the girl. “I mean that. I’m going to explain all of modern medicine to you.” “Please don’t do that, Marisol,” said Jon. “I did not feel good after you explained appendectomies. I couldn’t eat.” Marisol made a face at her plate. “So what you’re saying is, I did you a huge favor.” “I like to eat,” said Jon sadly. “Right,” said Marisol. “So, I don’t explain modern medicine to you, and then a medical emergency occurs to me. It could be solved with the application of a little first aid, but you don’t know that, and so I die. I die at your feet. Is that what you want, Jon?” “No,” said Jon. “What’s first aid? Is there a . . . second aid?” “I can’t believe you’re going to let me die when my death could so easily be avoided, if you had just listened,” Marisol went on mercilessly. “Okay, okay! I’ll listen.” “Great. Get me some juice, because I’ll be talking for a while. I’m still very hurt that you even considered letting me die,” Marisol added as Jon scrambled up and made for the side of the room where the unappetizing food and potentially poisonous drinks were laid out. “I thought Shadowhunters had a mandate to protect mundanes!” Marisol shouted after him. “Not orange juice. I want apple juice!

Ah, the mummy of Seqenenre,” I said. “Have you got as far as that?” From the small figure on the cot came a reflective voice. “It appeaws to me that he was muwduwed.” “What?” said Emerson, baffled by the last word. “Murdered,” I interpreted. “I would have to agree, Ramses; a man whose skull has been smashed by repeated blows did not die a natural death.” Sarcasm is wasted on Ramses. “I mean,” he insisted, “that it was a domestic cwime.” “Out of the question,” Emerson exclaimed. “Petrie has also put forth that absurd idea; it is impossible because—” “Enough,” I said. “It is late and Ramses should be asleep. Cook will be furious if we do not go down at once.” “Oh, very well.” Emerson bent over the cot. “Good night, my boy.” “Good night, Papa. One of the ladies of the hawem did it, I think.

Papa had no inner life. He was hollow, hollow… profit, acquisition and ticking little social-democratic boxes… his death grew naturally out of his life. Anomic suicide: Durkheim describes it well. Everyone’s death is a fulfilment, really.

The syllogism he had learnt from Kiesewetter’s Logic: “Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal,” had always seemed to him correct as applied to Caius, but certainly not as applied to himself. That Caius — man in the abstract — was mortal, was perfectly correct, but he was not Caius, not an abstract man, but a creature quite, quite separate from all others. He had been little Vanya, with a mamma and a papa, with Mitya and Volodya, with the toys, a coachman and a nurse, afterwards with Katenka and will all the joys, griefs, and delights of childhood, boyhood, and youth. What did Caius know of the smell of that striped leather ball Vanya had been so fond of?

Papa clears his throat, then explains, “I’ve received death threats. If I don’t withdraw from politics, you’ll be killed.

Until that moment, she had not known that she was not afraid to die. But she might not have to. She could shoot a dog without thinking twice, and she was sure she could shoot a man too, even if it would mean going to jail. But could she shoot more than one man? She didn’t know, but maybe she could. Newspaper reporters and the sheriff would claim she had lost her mind like they would say about Ruby McCollum in Live Oak one day soon, but her soul knew the truth: rescuing Robbie from a killing place would not be as immoral as leaving him there. The stench of pain and death from the Reformatory reached all the way out to this creek, dripping from aerial roots reaching toward the water. And if the law said she was wrong to shoot at the men chasing her brother, the law was wrong too. Uncle June had said he didn’t think his killing in the war was a sin because those men were trying to kill him. She would know the truth, at least. Miz Lottie, who had given her the gun, would certainly know. Papa would too. If she lived long enough, one day she would write a book about how she had helped set Robbie free. She’d tried the courthouse, hadn’t she? She’d brought Harry T. Moore and the glorious John Dorsey to try that way, but justice in Gracetown didn’t exist for Negroes. She’d told the judge about Lyle McCormack’s true-life violations and all he’d cared about was Papa’s imaginary one. No one was left to look out for Robbie except her.

Mrs. Hamilton gave him a pitying look. She didn’t believe it any more than her brother did. “We’ve all heard the stories.” “Well, they died here, or died running from here. Who do you think does the killing? It’s them. They come to work every day like killing people is nothing. How can they do that? How can they kill kids and nobody does anything?” Mrs. Hamilton strained to think of a good answer, or maybe another lie, but she couldn’t reply to him for a time. “It’s wrong,” she said. “As wrong as anything I’ve ever seen.” Hearing the truth made Robert’s bones heavy. He sobbed into Mrs. Hamilton’s arms. If she’d been Mama, she would have hugged him for a long while, patting the back of his neck, saying, All right, try to be brave like your papa, and then let him lie down and miss his chores. But she wasn’t Mama, so when the hug was cut short, he could barely stand. “Listen to me,” Mrs. Hamilton said, her words steadying him. “I know.” She’d spoken as if she’d seen it all: the dead boys in the photographs, Gloria’s map, the haint at the church. Every secret thing that only Redbone knew—had known. Robert felt dizzy when he remembered Redbone was dead. “I know what it is to have someone killed by violence—the injustice of it. It’s the worst feeling there is. My late husband, he didn’t die in the war: he got pulled off a train and beaten to death after he got back home. He never made it back to me. I carry that, Robert.” Her eyes were bright with tears. “This is yours to carry. There’s lots of people working to get you out of here, but you won’t find justice in here. If there’s any kind of justice, and I do mean if, it’s waiting outside. After

Kurasa, alasan orang meninggal pun seperti itu. Melarikan diri dari kejahatan di dunia tempat badan kasar mereka berada. Mungkin, pergi bukan hal yang buruk. Mungkin, kepergian papa adalah demi kebahagiaannya sendiri. Mungkin, itu egoisme terakhir manusia. Dan, wajar kalau manusia egois, kan?

Grief had been coiled quietly inside me since Papa's death 10 years ago-an absence that was as much a presence as any ghost.

kinds of disguises and dance to all sorts of tunes to make myself Harry’s addiction. If he had not been fatally flawed, early corrupted by the brutality of his school, I should never have been able to keep him from Celia. I knew I was a hundred times more beautiful than she, a hundred times stronger. But I could not always remember that, when I saw the quiet strength she drew on when she believed she was morally right. And I could not be certain that every man would prefer me, when I remembered how Harry had looked at her with such love when we came back from France. I would never forgive Celia for that summer. Even though it was the summer when I cared nothing for Harry but rode and danced day and night with John, I would not forget that Celia had taken my lover from me without even making an effort at conquest. And now my husband bent to kiss her hand as if she were a queen in a romance and he some plighted knight. I might give a little puff of irritation at this scene played out before my very window. Or I might measure the weakness in John and think how I could use it. But use it I would. Even if I had felt nothing else for John I should have punished him for turning his eyes to Celia. Whether I wanted him or not was irrelevant. I did not want my husband loving anyone else. For dinner that afternoon I dressed with extra care. I had remodelled the black velvet gown that I had worn for the winter after Papa’s death. The Chichester modiste knew her job and the deep plush folds fitted around my breasts and waist like a tight sheath, flaring out in lovely rumpled folds over the panniers at my hips. The underskirt was of black silk and whispered against the thick velvet as I walked. I made sure Lucy powdered my hair well, and set in it some black ribbon. Finally, I took off my pearl necklace and tied a black ribbon around my throat. With the coming of winter, my golden skin colour was fading to cream, and against the black of the gown I looked pale and lovely. But my eyes glowed green, dark-lashed and heavy-lidded, and I nipped my lips to make them red as I opened the parlour door. Harry and John were standing by the fireplace. John was as far away from Harry as he could be and still feel the fire. Harry was warming his plump buttocks with his jacket caught up, and drinking sherry. John, I saw in my first sharp glance, was sipping at lemonade. I had been right. Celia was trying to save my husband. And he was hoping to get his unsteady feet back on the road to health. Harry gaped openly when he saw me, and John put a hand on the mantelpiece as if one smile from me might destroy him. ‘My word, Beatrice, you’re looking very lovely tonight,’ said Harry, coming forward

How’d you like that valentine I sent you?” “You sent me?” said Sister. “You sent me this valentine?” “Yep,” said Billy. “I saved up for weeks to get it.” Sister was confused. She didn’t know what to say, so she just said, “Thanks.” She was still confused that evening when she showed Billy’s valentine to Mama. “Well, it certainly is beautiful,” said Mama, “and I understand your puzzlement. It takes me back to when I was a cub your age. There was this awful boy, just like Billy Grizzwold. He was just awful. The things he did! One time he chased me with a thousand-legger.” “Yuck!” said Sister. “And that wasn’t the worst of it,” continued Mama. “Once he put a giant bullfrog in my lunch box. It scared me half to death when it jumped out. It scared the whole class. It got me in a peck of trouble.” “How about that awful boy?” asked Sister. “Didn’t he get in trouble?” “Oh, yes. From time to time!” said Mama. “But after a while, he straightened out, got married, and raised a family. He became a solid citizen.” “Do I know him?” asked Sister. “Yes,” said Mama. “He’s sitting right over there. It was your papa.” Sister looked over at Papa, whose face was buried in the newspaper.

The syllogism he had learnt from Kieswetter's logic: "Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is more", had always seemed to him correct as applied to Caius, but certainly not as applies to himself. That Caius -- man in the abstract -- was mortal, was perfectly correct, but he was not Caius, not an abstract man, but a creature quite, quite separate from all others. He had been little Vanya with a mama and papa, with Mitya and Volodya, with toys, a coachman, and a nurse, and later with Katenka – Vanya, with all the joys, sorrows, and enthusiasms of his childhood, boyhood, and youth. Had Caius ever kissed his mother’s hand so dearly, and had the silk folds of her dress ever rustled so for him? Had Caius ever rioted at school when the pastries were bad? Had he ever been so much in love? Or presided so well over a court session?

The syllogism he had learnt from Kieswetter's logic: "Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is more", had always seemed to him correct as applied to Caius, but certainly not as applies to himself. That Caius -- man in the abstract -- was mortal, was perfectly correct, but he was not Caius, not an abstract man, but a creature quite, quite separate from all others. He had been little Vanya with a mama and papa, with Mitya and Volodya, with toys, a coachman, and a nurse, and later with Katenka – Vanya, with all the joys, sorrows, and enthusiasms of his childhood, boyhood, and youth. Had Caius ever kissed his mother’s hand so dearly, and had the silk folds of her dress ever rustled so for him? Had Caius ever rioted at school when the pastries were bad? Had he ever been so much in love? Or presided so well over a court session?

The syllogism he had learnt from Kiesewetter's Logic: "Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal," had always seemed to him correct as applied to Caius, but certainly not as applied to himself. That Caius—man in the abstract—was mortal, was perfectly correct, but he was not Caius, not an abstract man, but a creature quite, quite separate from all others. He had been little Vanya, with a mamma and a papa, with Mitya and Volodya, with the toys, a coachman and a nurse, afterwards with Katenka and will all the joys, griefs, and delights of childhood, boyhood, and youth. What did Caius know of the smell of that striped leather ball Vanya had been so fond of? Had Caius kissed his mother's hand like that, and did the silk of her dress rustle so for Caius? Had he rioted like that at school when the pastry was bad? Had Caius been in love like that? Could Caius preside at a session as he did? "Caius really was mortal, and it was right for him to die; but for me, little Vanya, Ivan Ilych, with all my thoughts and emotions, it's altogether a different matter. It cannot be that I ought to die. That would be too terrible.