Quotes About Meaning

We both thrive in the late hours, appreciate its sad taste and never get in the way of each other's dreams, even though Lude just wants more money, better parties and prettier girls and I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real.

Can Clara English ever recover or is she permanently wounded, damned to stagger under years devoid of meaning & love until finally the day comes when she stumbles and is swept away?

Do you believe in God? I don't think I ever asked you that one. Well I do now. But my God isn't your Catholic varietal or your Judaic or Mormon or Baptist or Seventh Day Adventist or whatever/whoever. No burning bush, no angels, no cross. God's a house. Which is not to say that our house is God's house or even a house of God. What I mean to say is that our house is God.

Do you believe in God? I don't think I ever asked you that one. Well I do now. God's a house. Which is not to say that our house is God's house or even a house of God. What I mean to say is that our house i?s? God.

I hope it doesn't matter. I have a terrifying feeling that it does.

God's a house. Which is not to say that our house is God's house or even a house of God. What I mean to say is that our house is God.

Here then—the aftermath of meaning.

But here it is. All that's left. Incoherent scrap. Too bad so much of his life had to slip between the lines of even his own words.

A mockery of meaning where meaning had never been needed before.

I walked in, loosened his soul, and carried it gently away.

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.

The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.

I'm not the messenger at all. I'm the message.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

The point is, it didn't really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.

She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.

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 the rain. (p. 85)

Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

She slid a book from the shelf and sat with it on the floor. She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half. Then a chapter. Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words lttered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be ant of this. What good were the words? The book thief stood and waled carefully to the library door.

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right. - Liesel Meminger

I guess when someone tells you something they they usually guard, you feel privileged, not because you know something no-one else knows, but because you feel chosen. You feel like that person wants her life to intersect with yours. I think that's what felt best about it.

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 the rain.