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The day was gray, the color of Europe.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Gray
Europe
Color

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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.
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He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.
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I had to decide what I was going to do, and what I was going to be. I was standing there, waiting for someone to do something , till I realised the person I was waiting for was myself.
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July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.
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It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.
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She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.
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Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.
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As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.
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Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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I'm asking you, I'm begging you, could you please shut your mouth for just five minutes? You can imagine the reaction. They ended up in the basement.
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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.
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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.
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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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The silence was always the greates temptation.
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It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words. You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this.
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The night is alive with stars, and when I lie down and look up, I get lost up there. I feel like I’m falling, but upward, into the abyss of sky above me.
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And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.
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