“Clearly, I see it.I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there.A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.”

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

“She places her hands around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. I can smell the sex on her, and my hope is that she can smell the love on me.”

“I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. 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.”

“As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basement, her favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life."Don't punish yourself", she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.”

“She remembered her books in the moments of worst sorrow, especially the ones that were made for her and the one that saved her life.”

“She slid a book from the shelf and sat with it on the floor.She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half. Then a chapter.Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words lttered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be ant of this.What good were the words?The book thief stood and waled carefully to the library door.”