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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
Inside
Blood
Almost
Crumbled
Dried
Broke
Pieces
Steps

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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.
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THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.
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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage - cold and heavy, slippery and gray - but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars.
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Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
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Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
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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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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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Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.
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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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Liesel shrugged away entirely from the crowd and entered the tide of Jews, weaving through them till she grabbed hold of his arm with her left hand. His face fell on her. It reached down as she tripped, and the Jew,the nasty Jew, helped her up. It took all of his strength.
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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.
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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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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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Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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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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