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Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Blood
Almost
Crumbled
Dried
Broke
Pieces
Steps
Inside

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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 think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
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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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...to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent.
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Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with 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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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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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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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.
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...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
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The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.
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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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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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The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced it.
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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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I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.
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Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.
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Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.
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