The Book Thief Quotes

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.

A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.

Usually we walk around constantly believing ourselves. "I'm okay" we say. "I'm alright". But sometimes the truth arrives on you and you can't get it off. That's when you realize that sometimes it isn't even an answer--it's a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

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.

His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.

Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

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. (Death)

She was saying goodbye and she didn't even know it.

A small fact:You are going to die....does this worry you?

Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.

I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.

People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.

One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.

So much good, so much evil. Just add water.

I guess humans like to watch a little destruction. Sand castles, houses of cards, that's where they begin. Their great skills is their capacity to escalate.

She took a step and didn't want to take any more, but she did.

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.

Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.

You can't eat books, sweetheart.

It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.

A SMALL PIECE OF TRUTHI do not carry a sickle or scythe.I only wear a hooded black robe when it's cold.And I don't have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.

As always, one of her books was next to her.

I like that every page in every book can have a gem on it. It's probably what I love most about writing—that words can be used in a way that's like a child playing in a sandpit, rearranging things, swapping them around. They're the best moments in a day of writing—when an image appears that you didn't know would be there when you started work in the morning.

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

I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.

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

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.

Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.

It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them.

The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.

Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.

Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

Goodbye, Papa, you saved me. You taught me to read. No one can play like you. I'll never drink champagne. No one can play like you."-Liesel

A book floated down the Amper River.A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and heldit in his right hand. He grinned. He stoodwaist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water.How about a kiss, Saumensch? he said.

It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation.

Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.