An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.

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.

I just want to write someone’s favorite book

I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

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

Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.