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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Broke
Glad
Although
Stills
Still
Heart

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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the opposition when you've heard rumors that he might be injured or sick-but there he is, warming up with the rest of them, ready to take the field.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?
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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.
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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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If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.
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She was a girl with a mountain to climb.
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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.
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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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I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
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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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THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.
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Why me?' I ask God. God says nothing. I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.
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Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?
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I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.
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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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But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
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