Markus Zusak

We are wolves, which are wild dogs, and this is our place in the city. We are small and our house is small on our small urban street. We can see the city and the train line and it's beautiful in its own dangerous way. Dangerous because it's shared and taken and fought for.That's the best way I can put it, and thinking about it, when I walk past the tiny houses on our street, I wonder about the stories inside them. I wonder hard, because houses must have walls and rooftops for a reason. My only query is the windows. Why do they have windows? Is it to let a glimpse of the world in? Or for us to see out?

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

The thing is, I don't even hate cops. To tell you the truth, I actually feel a little sorry for them.

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

... tried praying for him ...but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Don't ask me why. I hoped that he was okay, but I couldn't summon the strength to pray for it.

The only people we want to blame are ourselves, because it will be ourselves that we rely upon.

If I ever leave this place-I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.

He was the second snowman to be melting away before her eyes, only this one was different. It was a paradox. The colder he became, the more he melted.

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.

That__ when I have to ask him. __an you really talk like that? Being holy and all?___hat? Because I__ a priest?_ He finishes the dregs of his coffee. __ure. God knows what__ important.

...to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent.