It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

Finally, in October 1945, a man with swampy eyes, feathers of hair, and a clean-shaven face walked into the shop. He approached the counter. "Is there someone here by the name of Leisel Meminger?" "Yes, she's in the back," said Alex. He was hopeful, but he wanted to be sure. "May I ask who is calling on her?" Leisel came out. They hugged and cried and fell to the floor.

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

The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole. . .

His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.

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.

His eyes were cold and brown - like coffee stains.