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Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Steps
Walks
Wish
Snowman
Often
Basement
Hands
Basements
Something
Somehow
Would
Grief
Like
Walk

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Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.
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The bombs were coming-and so was I.
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As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.
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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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How'd it feel? Rube asked himself. I don't know exactly, but it made me want to howl.
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The silence was always the greates temptation.
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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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Very suddenly. Yes, quite suddenly, I didn't feel like I could handle my feeling of aloneness.
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Competence was attractive.
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The first couple of times, he simply stayed - a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered “Shhh, I’m here, its alright.” After three weeks, he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man’s gentleness, his thereness.
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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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She was a girl with a mountain to climb.
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How about a kiss, Saumensch?
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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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I certainly wasn't born with creative writing. Maybe there's a certain amount of learning and then it's up to the person. I think in the end it's your favourite books that are the best teachers. That's the way I've learned the most, by far.
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Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.
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But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
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Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.
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