...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.
As always, one of her books was next to her.
It was Russia, January 5, 1943, and just another icy day. Out among the city and snow, there were dead Russians and Germans everywhere. Those who remained were firing into the blank pages in front of them. Three languages interwove. The Russian, the bullets, the German.
The thrill of being ignored!
Stealing it, in a sick kind of sense, was like earning it.
I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.