The Book Thief

Living was living. The price was guilt and shame.

I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.

Thank you. For Max Vandenburg, those were the two most pitiful words he could possibly say, rivaled only by I’m sorry. There was a constant urge to speak both expressions, spurred on by the affliction of guilt.

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

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

Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.

AN OBSERVATION A pair of train guards. A pair of grave diggers. When it came down to it, one of them called the shots. The other did what he was told. The question is, what if the other is a lot more than one?

Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children

It kills me sometimes, how people die.