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Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.

“Look in my eyes. Do I look like someone who has heard this story?”

The new generation doesn’t play war, which is a shame; they text.

Since the accident she lost her hold on the world and never got it back.

Maybe this was one thing in his life he had done right, or so he hoped.

We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.

We shall still cherish in our hearts the memory of those dead.

They caught those few of us left unclaimed by the one emotion, or the other.

I don’t think I was very frightened. I was simply hungry for home.

When he got up in the morning the work was done ready to his hand.

His mother wasn’t there to meet him at his stop. She never was.

There was a shout, then a shot fired. I pressed the shutter again and again.

And the starved heart starts over, writing one line at a time.

The leaves of the olives were made entirely of night, as if cut out of skies.

A dead body leaned sideways against a wall. Its eyes were open.

I will tell you about the sick. They are ruthless, they are like Attila.

I will tell you about the sick. They are ruthless, they are like Attila.

Men came over carrying lanterns and pulled away the chunks of ice.

The draft of ten handwritten pages would have to be cut back to five.

Design a way to kill those rats, and do it now, Fiori, do it now.

There isn’t a nice Jewish boy in sight—not that I’m looking for one.