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The book thief has struck for the first time – the beginning of an illustrious career.

If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.

Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.

...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

A DEFINITION NOT FOUNDIN THE DICTIONARYNot leaving: an act of trust and love,often deciphered by children

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

My arms are killing me. I didn't know words could be so heavy.

Sometimes people are beautiful.Not in looks.Not in what they say.Just in what they are.

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

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

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.