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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
Walked
Sun
Tightrope
Monday

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When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.
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To me the question is always this: if a ray of light came out of the sky and said, Your next book will never be published - would you still write it? If the answer is yes, the book is worth writing.
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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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Because you don't learn anything unless you can find the patience to read. TV takes that away from you. It robs you from your mind.
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My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.
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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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You can do anything when it's not real.
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When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.
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***A KEY WORD*** Imagined
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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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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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...one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.
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When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.
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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
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Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.
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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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I even move out onto the front porch and see my own limited view of the world. I want to take that world, and for the first time ever, I feel like I can do it. I’ve survived everything I’ve had to so far. I’m still standing here.
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Even death has a heart.
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Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.
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No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.
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