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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: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Love
Mistaking
Oblivious
Laughter
Laughing
Knowing
Without
Feel
Feels

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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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To me the question is always this: if a ray of light came out of the sky and said, Your next book will never be published - would you still write it? If the answer is yes, the book is worth writing.
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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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She was like a lone angel floating above the surface of the earth, laughing with delight because she could fly but crying out of loneliness.
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Everything was good. But it was awful, too.
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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.
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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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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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You don't shoot a dog when it is already dead.
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Even death has a heart.
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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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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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I look at her wish we could go inside and make love on the couch. Dive inside each other. Take each other. Make each other. Nothing happens, though.
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The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs, jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder. They breathed. German and Jewish lungs.
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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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It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.
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I’m Angelina,” she says. “Are you here to save us?” I can see a tiny spark of hope awaken in her eyes. “You’re right, Angelina - I’m here to save you.” “Can you? Really?” “I’ll try,” I say and the girl smiles.
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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'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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