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

She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen. With wonder, she smiled. That such a room existed!

Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. (p.36)

July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.

I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.