The Book Thief

When she was close enough, she saw it move past him, but he soon caught up. His hand reached in and collared what wa now a soggy block of cardboard and paper. "The Whistler!" the boy called out. It was the only book floating down the Amper River that day, but he felt the need to announce it. . . . 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.

Max, at that moment, knew that only a child could have given him a weather report like that. On the wall, he painted a long, tightly knotted rope with a dripping yellow sun at the end of it, as if you could dive right into it. On the ropy cloud, he drew two figures--a thin girl and a withering Jew--and they were walking, arms balanced, toward that dripping sun. Beneath the picture, he wrote the following sentence. . . . It was a Monday, and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

There were broken bodies and dead, sweet hearts. . . . I shiver when I remember--as I try to de-realize it. I blow warm air into my hands, to heat them up. But it's hard to keep them warm when the souls still shiver. God. I always say that name when I think of it. God. Twice, I speak it. I say His name in a futile attempt to understand. "But it's not your job to understand." That's me who answers. God never says anything. You think you're the only one he never answers? "Your job is to . . ." And I stop listening to me, because to put it bluntly, I tire me. When I start thinking like that, I become so exhausted, and I don't have the luxury of indulging fatigue. I'm compelled to continue on, because although it's not true for every person on earth, it's true for the vast majority--that death waits for no man--and if he does, he doesn't usually wait very long.

Markus Zusak, The Book Thief