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.

... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

It was Russia, January 5, 1943, and just another icy day. Out among the city and snow, there were dead Russians and Germans everywhere. Those who remained were firing into the blank pages in front of them. Three languages interwove. The Russian, the bullets, the German.

Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.

When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.

The silence was always the greates temptation.