Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.
Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
It kills me sometimes, how people die.
I am haunted by humans.
Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.
I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.
He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
Even death has a heart.
Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
A DEFINITION NOT FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children
She leaned down and looked at his lifeless face and Leisel kissed her best friend, Rudy Steiner, soft and true on his lips. He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist's suit collection. She kissed him long and soft, and when she pulled herself away, she touched his mouth with her fingers...She did not say goodbye. She was incapable, and after a few more minutes at his side, she was able to tear herself from the ground. It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on...
A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.
Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.
He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. 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 rain.
A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.
If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.
I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?