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If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Laughter
Laughing
Knowing
Without
Feel
Feels
Love
Mistaking
Oblivious

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Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.
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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.
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There was once a strange, small man. He decided three important details about his life: 1. He would part his hair from the opposite side to everyone else. 2. He would make himself a small, strange mustache. 3. He would one day rule the world. ...Yes, the Fuhrer decided that he would rule the world with words.
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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 beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.
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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 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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You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.
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I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.
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Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.
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Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.
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There are so many moments to remember and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.... Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.
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There are moments when you can only stand and stare, watching the world forget you as you remove yourself from it - when you overcome it and cease to exist as the person you were.
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Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.
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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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You can do anything when it's not real.
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I'm asking you, I'm begging you, could you please shut your mouth for just five minutes? You can imagine the reaction. They ended up in the basement.
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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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