The Book Thief Quotes With Page Number Novels & Stories

“What did you say?” “It was a code. 18-L-3-20,” I recited from memory. “I found the book in your library. Shakespeare. On the page the code led to, there was a pinprick, a tiny hole through a single word.” I took a shaky breath, finally giving the ghost a name. “The word was ‘betrayal’.”

“All you gotta do is pick up a book from the return cart by the chapel door. It’s a donation. Look for “The Fault in Our Stars.” He blinked. “The one with the crying teenagers?” “Yeah, that one.” He eyed me. “There better not be a weapon inside it.” I grinned. “Of course not. Just feelings and sodium.” ***** An hour later: Quincy returns to the cell holding the book like it’s been dipped in acid. He drops it on my bed. “There. You and your teen angst.” “Much appreciated,” I say sweetly, peeling back the cover and revealing my treasures tucked into a carved-out hole in the pages.

I almost breathed a sigh of relief when the words echoed in my ears. Those words were exactly the same in the book I'd found in his room. They were a few sentences away from the phrase "a man will do anything for the woman he loves." The difference was the name of the woman in the book wasn't Arie. I paused suddenly, realizing something I didn't before; he'd quoted the same book! Chills traced their way to my skin. Every inch of me covered in goosebumps. I suddenly felt a bitter taste in my mouth, and the room became too quiet.

I murmured, feeling a pang of urgency in my chest. Without wasting time, I turned to the living book and scribbled the question with trembling fingers. The answer inked itself on the page once more: Love and sacrifice. I sighed, the words now more haunting than comforting. “Always the same answer.” Zevarion reached for my hand, gently closing the book. “We’ve been through enough for today. Let’s rest. Keep the book close. We’ll figure this out, one step at a time.” “I agree,” I whispered, pressing the book against my chest.

't really remember what I wrote down that day, but I was sure something pertaining to what just happened to Nicholas was written down in that journal. Only if I could lay my hands on that fucking journal, I will be able to find answers to this sudden doubt within me. I checked the first, second, and third rows, but I couldn't find the journal. "Where on earth did I keep that stuff? I stood up and my hands pushed down a book. I paused and looked to my left where the book was. I picked up the book and smiled, it was my old journal "Where have you been? I walked back to his bed and flipped through the book, looking for a particular write-up. I ended up flipping through the book but could

“Because I want to be your friend, and I’m not taking no for an answer.” I had a feeling he wasn’t going to listen to me no matter how much I argued, and there were only 10 more minutes before my next class. “What nonsense were you talking about earlier?” I asked. He frowned. “It’s a quote from the book.” He pointed at my book. “How many times have you read this that you memorized quotes like that?” I asked in pure shock. I didn’t ever remember him reading back in high school and he still didn’t strike me as the illiterate type.

Danger. I turned. And there she was. The librarian. Standing at the door, her frail frame outlined by the torchlight. Her eyes wide, mouth parted in shock. I stiffened, caught mid-theft like a pup with blood on his muzzle. “Well,” I said dryly, closing the book with exaggerated calm. “This is awkward.” Her lips trembled. “W-who are you? What are you doing...” I lifted a hand. “Shhh. I’m the friendly neighborhood bookworm. Here to… improve my literacy.”

Entire paragraphs written like someone had lived through days and nights with this book as their only company. On the edge of one page, someone had scribbled in large bold letters: NOTE TO SELF: NEVER SUMMON A BONE SERPENT IN THE BATHHOUSE. CLEAN-UP TAKES HOURS. A laugh almost slipped out, but I swallowed it. This wasn’t just a spellbook. It was personal. I turned to the back, where one of the later pages was blank except for a single phrase written in looping script: If you’re reading this, don’t trust the quiet forests.

It was just a lot of questions I didn’t want at all so that’s why I don’t use the credit card on books. Pushing out a breath, I shoved the thoughts of my father to the back of my mind and refocused, running my fingers along the spines of the books I was returning. When I got to my new favorite, One Hundred Years of Solitude, I hesitated, tracing the title absentmindedly, perhaps I should give it a re-read and use it for my thesis? A voice suddenly spoke behind me, quoting a line from the book. “Death really did not matter to him, but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear, but of nostalgia.”

I took a sip from the first drink and then the second drink. Hmmn. Tasty. I opened the book and flipped the pages… I’m at page 89 automatically now. I’m gonna read past him. I reached page 89 and weirdly there was a note there in a small red card. I looked around and took the card, I opened it and it says… “Need a ride? Hurry.” I gasped. Daaash! I took my back pack and the two cans of drinks and the book. I kept the book back on the shelve and dashed outside.