If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?

I'm not the messenger at all. I'm the message.

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.

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.

My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.