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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: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Throw
Fingers
Hundred
Arms
Suitcases
Five
Shoulder
Soul
Carried
Children
Shoulders
Like
Souls

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Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.
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THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.
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The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced it.
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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
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I try hard and aim big. People can hate or love my books but they can never accuse me of not trying.
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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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I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.
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We expressed love for this dog by ... knowing without showing that we cared for him.
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It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
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Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.
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It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words. You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this.
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But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.
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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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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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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
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She was a girl with a mountain to climb.
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