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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: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Broke
Pieces
Steps
Inside
Blood
Almost
Crumbled
Dried

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I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.
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It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.
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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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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
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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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A REASSURING ANNOUNCEMENT Please, be calm, despite that previous threat. I am all bluster - I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.
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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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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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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 guess when someone tells you something they they usually guard, you feel privileged, not because you know something no-one else knows, but because you feel chosen. You feel like that person wants her life to intersect with yours. I think that's what felt best about it.
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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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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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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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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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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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A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)
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His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.
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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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