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.

An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.

His soul sat up. It met me. 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.

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.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't be asking such things...' She let the sentence die its own death

She was battered and beaten up, and not smiling this time. Liesel could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked at her lips. Her eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to the surface of her skin. All from the words. From Liesel's words.

He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.