Stealing it, in a sick kind of sense, was like earning it.

THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.

… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.

I'd rather chase the sun than wait for it.

Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?

You can kill a man with those words. No gun. No bullets. Just words and a girl.

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