It's not a big thing, but I guess it's true--big things are often just small things that are noticed.

A book floated down the Amper River. A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and held it in his right hand. He grinned. He stood waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water. “How about a kiss, Saumensch?” he said.

He killed himself for wanting to live.

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

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.