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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
Laughing
Knowing
Without
Feel
Feels
Love
Mistaking
Oblivious
Laughter

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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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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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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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It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.
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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.
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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: 'Get it done, get it done.' So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.
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Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.
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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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Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.
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I s'pose, I can't have it all my own way, can I? You can't drown in a person unless they let you.
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***A KEY WORD*** Imagined
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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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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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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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It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.
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I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.
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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 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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When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.
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