I look at her wish we could go inside and make love on the couch. Dive inside each other. Take each other. Make each other. Nothing happens, though.

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

… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.

Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.

Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.

Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.

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

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.

I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.

To be free, you must think. There is no way to follow blindly and to be free.

And then I became aware of all the magnificent silk wrapped around my body, and had the feeling I might drown in beauty. At that moment, beauty itself struck me as a kind of painful melancholy.

Trust creates the sharing of ideas, plans, and feelings that becomes a gift that you can treasure.

If the Holy Communion touched my teeth, I thought that was a mortal sin

In the realm of divine consciousness, you can see beyond beliefs, beyond knowing, and beyond not knowing.

How can I be a part of the 1960s generation when I don't even remember any of it?

My term ends in June 2004 and I have no intention to change that.

He who has once made himself notorious as utterly unprincipled, is not credited even when he speaks the truth.

Well, you don't make any demands to Steven Spielberg.

How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?