The Book Thief

I hang suspended, until a septic truth bleeds towards clarity.

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.

Is there cowardice in the acknowledgement of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?

In years to come, he would be a giver of bread, not a stealer – proof again of the contradictory human being. So much good, so much evil. Just add water.

Standing above him at all moments of awareness was the hand of time, and it didn’t hesitate to wring him out. It smiled and squeezed and let him live. What great malice there could be in allowing something to live.

The whole pace of life and personality of the people who live along them are different. They’re not going anywhere. They’re not too busy to be courteous. The hereness and nowness of things is something they all know about. It’s the others, the ones who moved to the cities years ago and their lost offspring who have all but forgotten it.