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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Moments
Night
Hands
Work
Tiredness
Way
Blocked
Conquered
Hand
Perfect

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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
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Competence was attractive.
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There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.
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I think to be writer you have to enjoy being alone. I was a loner as a teenager and was always drawn to characters in books and films who were at the fringes.
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When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.
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You can do anything when it's not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.
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The question is what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?
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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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I had many boxing matches with my brother in the backyard when we were younger, and I guess while other people abhor boxing for its brutality, I also have to admire anyone who climbs into the ring to face up to what could be the ultimate defeat.
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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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The first couple of times, he simply stayed - a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered “Shhh, I’m here, its alright.” After three weeks, he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man’s gentleness, his thereness.
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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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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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The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help. They ignore the reality that a new version of the same old problem will be waiting at the end of the trip- the relative you cringe to kiss.
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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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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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