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

You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.

As always, one of her books was next to her.

At first, she could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him?

Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?

He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.