Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.

But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the start that you're going to win it.

Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.

I'm not the messenger at all. I'm the message.

Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.

You should give it to Max, Liesel. See if you can leave it on the bedside table, like all the other things." Liesel watched him as if he'd gone insane. "How, though?" Lightly, he tapped her skull with his knuckles. "Memorize it. Then write it down for him.

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?