When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.

She kept watching the words.

I procrastinate in spades. In my defence, I also try to have all other distractions solved before I can concentrate on writing. My small theory is that to write for three hours, you need to feel like you have three days. To write for three days, you need to feel like you've got three weeks, and so on.

Believe it or not--it takes a lot of love to hate you like this.

Summer came. For the book thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews. When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower.

Stealing it, in a sick kind of sense, was like earning it.