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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Children
Shoulders
Like
Souls
Throw
Fingers
Hundred
Arms
Suitcases
Five
Shoulder
Soul
Carried

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Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.
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Soon evening worked its way into the sky, and the city hunched itself down.
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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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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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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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You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I've seen millions of them. I've seen more eclipses than I care to remember
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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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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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Because you don't learn anything unless you can find the patience to read. TV takes that away from you. It robs you from your mind.
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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
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They'd been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.
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July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.
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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 always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.
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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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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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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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