The sun is a thief: she lures the sea
and robs it. The moon is a thief:
he steals his silvery light from the sun.
The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon.

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.

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

The poet must steal fire from the heavens.

A thief was a thief, whether he stole a little or a lot.

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

when we awoke someone had stolen the sea.

Le vent déracina celui de qui le ciel était voisin et dont les pieds touchaient à l'empire des mots.

I mean your borrowers of books - those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.

Art is theft.

The thief left it behind:
the moon
at my window.

Both of them are obvious dwellers in the valley of the shadow of books.

If the item of stolen property had been anything other than a book, it would have been confiscated. But a book is different — it is not just a material possession but the pathway to an enlightened mind, and thence to a well-ordered society,

An eye awake in voiceless heights of trance,
A mind plucking at the unimaginable,
Overleaping with a sole and perilous bound
The high black wall hiding superconscience,
She broke in with inspired speech for scythe
And plundered the Unknowable’s vast estate.

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