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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Life
Smile
Watches
Watch
Beauty
Death
Planned
Together
Collapse
Everything
Carefully
Would
Destruction

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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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It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
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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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As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.
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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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Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.
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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.
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He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.
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Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.
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Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.
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I'd been in love with her for years. I never left this suburban town. I didn't go to university. I went to Audrey.
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It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.
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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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Living in Sydney, I've taken the chance to start surfing again. One of my best memories of growing up is catching my first proper wave and surfing across it and my brother cheering at me from the shore.
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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.
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As a child in Sydney, my German Mum and my Austrian Dad would spontaneously tell me stories about what they saw and what they did as children. It was like a piece of Europe coming into our house... Those stories led me to my writing.
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I certainly wasn't born with creative writing. Maybe there's a certain amount of learning and then it's up to the person. I think in the end it's your favourite books that are the best teachers. That's the way I've learned the most, by far.
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