Markus Zusak

The book thief has struck for the first time _ the beginning of an illustrious career.

The point is, it didn__ really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.

How does it feel, anyway?"How does what feel?"When you take one of those books?"At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wants an answer, he'd have to come back, and he did. "Well?" he asked, but again, it was the boy who replied, before Liesel could even open her mouth.It feels good, doesn't it? To steal something back.

My arms are killing me. I didn't know words could be so heavy.

She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen.With wonder, she smiled.That such a room existed!

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

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.

Best friends one, and now we have almost nothing to say to each other. It was interesting, how he had joined those guys and I just stayed on my own. I didn't like it or dislike it. It was just funny that things had turned out that way.

As always, she was carrying the washing. Rudy was carrying two buckets of cold water, or as he put it, two buckets of future ice.

Time will tell, I suppose, or at least, these pages will.

It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.

My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.

It makes me wonder, Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or forget things? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives? I don't know.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

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

The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.

Why can__ the world hear? I ask myself. Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it doesn__ care, I finally answer, and I know I__ right. It__ like I__e been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.

Failure has been my best friend as a writer. It tests you, to see if you have what it takes to see it through.