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.

The Germans in basements were pitiable, surely, but at least they had a chance. That basement was not a washroom. They were not sent there for a shower. For those people, life was still achievable.

It was Russia, January 5, 1943, and just another icy day. Out among the city and snow, there were dead Russians and Germans everywhere. Those who remained were firing into the blank pages in front of them. Three languages interwove. The Russian, the bullets, the German.

There was also a rumor that later in the day, she walked fully clothed into the Amper River and said something very strange. Something about a kiss. Something about a Saumensch. How many times did she have to say goodbye?

It was a style not of perfection, but warmth. Even mistakes had a good feeling about them

Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.

The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.