It’s a small story really, about, among other things: * A girl * Some words * An accordionist * Some fanatical Germans * A Jewish fist fighter * And quite a lot of thievery

What do you want to kiss me for? I'm filthy.'- Liesel So am I.'- Rudy

You can do anything when it's not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.

Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

For at least twenty minutes she handed out the story. The youngest kids were soothed by her voice, and everyone else saw visions of the whistler running from the scene. Liesel did not. The book thief saw only the mechanics of the words--their bodies stranded on the paper, beaten down for her to walk on. Somewhere, too, in the gaps between a period and the next capital letter, there was also Max. She remembered reading to him when he was sick. It he in the basement? she wondered. Or is he stealing a glimpse of the sky again?

Very suddenly. Yes, quite suddenly, I didn't feel like I could handle my feeling of aloneness.

Humans have a talent for escalation. -Death