Disbelief held me down inside my footsteps, making my body heavy but my heart wild.

I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

Mistakes, mistakes, it's all I seem capable of at times.

If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.

We're silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I'm the older one and should therefore initiate conversation. But I don't. I don't want to waste this girl with idle chitchat. She's beautiful.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.