The days and nights come apart. I feel them corroding at the seams.

The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs, jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder. They breathed. German and Jewish lungs.

He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.

Handfuls of frosty water can make almost anyone smile, but it cannot make them forget.

It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.

You're far from this. This story is just another few hundred pages of your mind.