A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.

Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.

Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?

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.

I also fear that nothing really ends at the end. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

***A Last note from your narrator*** I am haunted by humans.

In years to come, he would be a giver of bread, not a stealer - proof again of the contradictory human being. So much good, so much evil. Just add water.