All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.

I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

It’s all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members, but they won’t let anyone else do it. That’s when you get your back up and show loyalty.

I'm gonna hunt my life down and grab it.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?