“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.”

“She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half.Then a chapter.Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Führer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better.What good were the words?She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. "What good are the words?”

“Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word book acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver’s Travels from the library.  This book I had again and again perused with delight. ”

“The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.”

“The books awed her by size, thickness, the staggering mass of lines and words to read before she could read all of them. Then having read all of the books must she carry in her head all that knowledge from the books? This too staggered her. "Wouldn't my head feel queer?" she asked Elder Brewster. "Wouldn't my head feel heavy carrying so much knowledge? Could any of it spill out if there was too much?”

“There was nothing particularly special about her, except that she was good with numbers, and very good at lying, and she made her home in between the pages of books.”