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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
Conquered
Hand
Perfect
Moments
Night
Hands
Work
Tiredness
Way
Blocked

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When death captures me, the boy vowed, he will feel my fist in his face. (31.26)
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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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He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.
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for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.
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She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
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Even death has a heart.
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I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.
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Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.
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He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.
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You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.
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As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.
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It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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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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