Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.

As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.

I certainly wasn't born with creative writing. Maybe there's a certain amount of learning and then it's up to the person. I think in the end it's your favourite books that are the best teachers. That's the way I've learned the most, by far.

The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.

There were people everywhere on the city street, but the stranger could not have been more alone if it were empty.

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

But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?