It's an illusion I've noticed before-- words on a page are like oxygen to a petrol engine, firing up ghosts. It only lasts while the words are in your head. After you put down the paper or pen, the pistons… — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
“It was wonderful flirting with him, all the razor-edged literary banter, like Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. A battle of wit,… — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
“She was never so petty. She did not dabble with minnows at the surface when there were thirty-pound salmon swimming deeper down.” — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
“I, of course, took the opportunity to interpose with pigheaded Wallace pride, 'I am not English, you ignorant Jerry bastard, I am a SCOT.” — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
“Which would you rather have––an unlimited supply of Chanel No. 5, or freedom?” — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
“And this, even more wonderful and mysterious, is also true: when I read it, when I read what Julie's written, she is instantly alive… — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
I tend not to attempt to describe pain. I don't feel I can comprehend or re-create the personal suffering of others, so I simply… — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
“She gave a low and delighted chuckle. Her eyes were black as a moonless December night and reflected the electric lights like stars.” — Elizabeth Wein Copy Share Image
