The Book Thief

by Markus Zusak

You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I’ve seen millions of them. I’ve seen more eclipses than I care to remember.

If you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story. I’ll show you something.

If you can’t imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

That’s the sort of thing I’ll never know, or comprehend—what humans are capable of.

The point is, it didn’t really matter what that book was about. It was what it meant that was more important.

She was the book thief without the words.

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

Even death has a heart.

Yes, the boss was at my shoulder. “Get it done, get it done.” The bombs were coming—and so was I.

It’s my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn’t feel like this.

Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

She did not know where she was running, for Himmel Street no longer existed. Everything was new and apocalyptic. Why was the sky red? How could it be snowing? And why did the snowflakes burn her arms?

I am haunted by humans.