Death’s Narrative

Where’s the fight? he wondered.
Where’s the will to hold on?

Of course, at thirteen, he was a little excessive in his harshness. He had not looked something like me in the face. Not yet.

With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man die – a safe merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the color of summer’s skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing disappeared completely.

“When death captures me,” the boy vowed, “he will feel my fist on his face.”

Personally, I quite like that. Such stupid gallantry.
Yes.
I like that a lot.
– Markus Zusak in The Book Thief

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