The Book Thief

by Markus Zusak

A few of them performed the beautiful childhood art of snickering.

Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out, like the rain.

one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.

Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.

It’s hard not to like a man who not only notices the colours, but speaks them.

It’s a lot easier, she realised, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it.

But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgement of fear?

Perhaps it was her first realisation that criminality spoke best for itself.

On the other hand, he was also enjoying the ecstasy of an idea, not daring just yet to envision its complications, dangers and vicious absurdities. For now, the idea was enough. It was indestructible. Transforming it into reality, well, that was something else altogether. For now, though, let’s let him enjoy it.

Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.

He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again, and would go to his grave without them.

‘Better that we leave the paint behind,’ Hans told her, ‘than ever forget the music.’

It was good and well to share bread and music, but it was nice for Liesel to know that he was also more than capable in his occupation. Competence was attractive.

In the basement, when she wrote about her life, Liesel vowed that she would never drink champagne again, for it would never taste as good as it did on that warm afternoon in July.

The book thief only saw the mechanics of the words – their bodies stranded on the paper, beaten down for her to walk on.

The suffering faces of depleted men and women reached across to them, pleading not so much for help – they were beyond that – but for an explanation. Just something to subdue this confusion.

and misery was attached to them as if assigned.

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?

‘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.

Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places. This one was sent out by the breath of an accordion, the odd taste of champagne in summer, and the art of promise-keeping.

A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR I am haunted by humans.