"An idea doesn't die... It exists somewhere, in its own dimension, waiting to be perceived." (The Cardturner)

Censorship ends in logical completeness when nobody is allowed to read any books except the books that nobody reads.

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
(Ulysses)

Source

I've published five books now, and I love them all, hate them all, and am both proud and embarrassed of each of them. Only one of them, however, means everything to me. Only one of them is the book, however flawed, that I worry I can't better in my next attempt - and that's The Book Thief.
 

There are many reasons why this book means everything to me, but the main one is my parents. Growing up in Sydney, I had a slightly different childhood from most kids in my neighborhood, especially when it came to stories that were told at home. My mother is from Munich and my father from Vienna-and although they're Australian now, they brought a whole different world of stories with them. It was those stories that kept us glued to our kitchen chairs as we grew up. It was those stories that inspired The Book Thief.

My brother, my two sisters, and I were always entranced as we saw cities of fire, people crouching in bomb shelters, and several close brushes with death. We heard about German teenagers giving bread to Jewish people being marched to concentration camps. We heard how the Jewish people were whipped for taking the bread. And we heard how the teenagers were whipped for giving them the bread... I remember being stunned by the ugly world I was told about, but more so by the moments of beauty that existed there as well. I wanted to write about those moments, and it's here that I need to acknowledge that I'm extremely fortunate to have parents who not only have great stories, but also have the ability to tell them in a beautiful, meaningful, and compelling way. They are the beginning of The Book Thief. Writing the book resulted in me telling my parents that I loved them, and for that, I'm more grateful than anything else.