“The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.” ― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

"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." (p.245 LP version) said by Death.

"Look at the colors," Papa said. It's hard not to like a an who not only notices the colors, but speaks them. - Markus Zusak

She leaned down and looked at his lifeless face and Liesel kissed her best friend, Rudy Steiner, soft and true on his lips. He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like the 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. Her hands were trembling, her lips were fleshy, and she leaned in once more, this time losing control and misjudging it. Their teeth collided on the demolished world of Himmel Street.

Point five: 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. (p. 60)

Mr. Steiner was a remarkably polite man under normal circumstances. Discovering one of his children smeared charcoal black on a summer evening was not what he considered normal circumstances. “The boy is crazy,” he muttered, although he conceded that with six kids, something like this was bound to happen. At least one of them had to be a bad egg. (p. 58)

The day was gray, the colour of Europe. Curtains of rain were drawn around the car. (p. 27)

All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon. (p. 30)

People on the street stood and watched, some with straight-armed salutes, others with hands that burned from applause. Some kept faces that were contorted by pride and rally like Frau Diller, and then there were the scatterings of odd men out, like Alex Steiner, who stood like a human-shaped block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful. And beautiful. Submission. (p. 62)

As he looked uncomfortably at the human shape before him, the young man’s voice was scraped out and handed across the dark like it was all that remained of him. (p. 173)

Still no one stepped forward, but a voice stooped out and ambled toward the sergeant. It sat at his feet, waiting for a good kicking. It said, “Hubermann, sir.” The voice belonged to Erik Vandenburg. He obviously thought that today wasn’t the appropriate time for his friend to die. (p. 177)

“This is Max,” the woman said, but the boy was too young and shy to say anything. he was skinny, with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness. Hans left. “You never told me,” he said to a dead Erik Vandenburg and the Stuttgart skyline. “You never told me you had a son.” (p. 179)

It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name a just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation. (p. 307)

Yes, I know it. In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. He’d have loved it, all right. You see? Even death has a heart. (p. 242)

“How about a kiss, Saumensch?” He stood waist-deep in the water for a few moments longer before climbing out and handing her the book. His pants clung to him, and he did not stop walking. In truth, I think he was afraid. Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief’s kiss. He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them. (p. 303)

"How many had actively persecuted others, high on the scent of Hitler's gaze, repeating his sentences, his paragraphs, his opus? Was Rosa Hubermann responsible? The hider of a Jew? Or Hans? Did they all deserve to die? The children?" pg. 374-375

In the army, he didn't stick out at either end. He ran in the middle, climbed in the middle, and he could shoot straight enough so as not to affront his superiors. Nor did he excel enough to be one of the first chosen to run straight at me. ***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're running at me.