The consequence of this is that I'm always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.

One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.

The commitment had disappeared, and although he still watched the imagined glory of stealing, she could see now he was not believing. He was trying to believe it, and that’s never a good sign.

When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

She took a step and didn't want to take any more, but she did.

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.