Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.

He's most likely robbing the bank as a paycheck on the world for winning the ugliness prize at his local fete three years running.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.

Finally, in October 1945, a man with swampy eyes, feathers of hair, and a clean-shaven face walked into the shop. He approached the counter. "Is there someone here by the name of Leisel Meminger?" "Yes, she's in the back," said Alex. He was hopeful, but he wanted to be sure. "May I ask who is calling on her?" Leisel came out. They hugged and cried and fell to the floor.

Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.

Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.

A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.