She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half. Then a chapter. Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Führer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better. What good were the words? She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. "What good are the words?
Markus ZusakSometimes 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.
Markus ZusakJust be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.
Markus Zusak