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It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Tightrope
Monday
Walked
Sun

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You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.
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Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.
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… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.
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I am hunted by humans.
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They'd been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.
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The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.
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You cannot be afraid, Read the book. Smile at it. It's a great book-the greatest book you've ever read.
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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 orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.
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It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.
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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
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I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.
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We expressed love for this dog by ... knowing without showing that we cared for him.
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He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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The question is what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?
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A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)
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It's insane to be a writer and not be a reader. When I'm writing I'm more likely to be reading four or five books at once, just in bits and pieces rather than subjecting myself to a really brilliant book and thinking, Well what's the point of me writing anything? I'm more likely to read a book through when I take a break from writing.
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The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.
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