It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them

The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.

When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.

It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.

Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

One day, Liesel.' he said, 'you'll be dying to kiss me.