I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.

I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.

The song was born on her breathe and died at her lips.

His eyes were cold and brown - like coffee stains.

The human child – so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.

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

The book thief has struck for the first time – the beginning of an illustrious career.