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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Days
Night
Ends
Stride
Change
Watched
Wanted
Disappointment
Always
None
Time
Forward
Darkness

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It's insane to be a writer and not be a reader. When I'm writing I'm more likely to be reading four or five books at once, just in bits and pieces rather than subjecting myself to a really brilliant book and thinking, Well what's the point of me writing anything? I'm more likely to read a book through when I take a break from writing.
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They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of souls. Was it fate?Misfortune?Is that what glued them down like that?Of course not.Let's not be stupid.It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds.
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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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The flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.
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All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.
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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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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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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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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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My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
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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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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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I had to decide what I was going to do, and what I was going to be. I was standing there, waiting for someone to do something , till I realised the person I was waiting for was myself.
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I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.
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The bombs were coming-and so was I.
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Competence was attractive.
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Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.
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The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole. . .
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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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