Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

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.

An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.

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

The human child – so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.

The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?

I just want to write someone’s favorite book