The Book Thief

by Markus Zusak

I traveled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.

The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help. They ignore the reality that a new version of the same old problem will be waiting at the end of the trip—the relative you cringe to kiss.

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.

It’s much easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it.

I’ve seen so many young men over the years who think they’re running at other young men. They are not. They’re running at me.

For some reason, dying men always ask questions they know the answer to. Perhaps it’s so they can die being right.

The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.