“There was also an acknowledgment that there was great beauty in what she was currently witnessing, and she chose not to disturb it.”

“Not a beauty queen. Not one of those. You know the ones. She was real.”

“Steadily, the room shrank, till the book thief could touch the shelves within a few small steps. She ran the back of her hand along the first shelf, listening to the shuffle of her fingernails gliding across the spinal cord of each book. It sounded like an instrument, or the notes of running feet. She used both hands. She raced them. One shelf against the other. And she laughed. Her voice was sprawled out, high in her throat, and when she eventually stopped and stood in the middle of the room, she spent many minutes looking from the shelves to her fingers and back again. How many books had she touched? How many had she felt? She walked over and did it again, this time much slower, with her hand facing forward, allowing the dough of her palm to feel the small hurdle of each book. It felt like magic, like beauty, as bright lines of light shone down from a chandelier. Several times, she almost pulled a title from its place but didn't dare disturb them. They were too perfect.”

“There was also a rumor that later in the day, she walked fully clothed into the Amper River and said something very strange.Something about a kiss.Something about a Saumensch.How many times did she have to say goodbye?”

“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.”

“When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.”

“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.”