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.

That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems.

So I saw that there was only me. There was only me who could worry about what was happening here, inside these walls of my life. Other people had their own worlds to worry about, and in the end, they had to fend for themselves, just like us.

Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.

...to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent.

He was waving. "Saukerl," she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think that's as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get.