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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

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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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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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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The bombs were coming-and so was I.
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I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.
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You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I've seen millions of them. I've seen more eclipses than I care to remember
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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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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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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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If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.
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She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
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I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.
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Yes, I know it. In the darkness of my dark beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it alright. You see? Even Death Has A Heart.
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You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.
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She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.
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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.
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Make sure you live,' she said. 'As decent as you can. I know you'll make mistakes, but sometimes you're meant to, okay?
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The conversation of bullets.
Markus Zusak