...they watched the humans disappear. They watched them dissolve, like moving tablets in the humid air.

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.

Our lives are defined by how we spend our time and what we choose to do daily. A life of passion is not an act but a lifestyle.

We should not judge people or try to figure out what makes them tick. We should leave them the hell alone.

The lights are off and the sun if finally setting, the night sky is changing overhead

3D is like a computer. Every six months that computer that was state of the art is now obsolete.

Spike Lee is obviously more stupid than anyone can be by accident.

Grieve not because thou understand-not life's mystery; behind the veil is concealed many a delight.

I don't think... one get a flash of happiness once, and never again; it is there deep within you.

Working is very important to me. Probably because as a child I was taught that work was good. I don’t believe it intellectually but I identify with that idea. So it’s probably just like a habit.

Oil painting did to appearances what capital did to social relations. It reduced everything to the equality of objects. Everything became exchangeable because everything became a commodity.

Why can't reason give greater answers? Why can we throw a question further than we can pull in an answer? Why such a vast net if there's so little fish to catch?