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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Going
Jew
Sky
Summer
Color
Books
Nicely
Came
Thief
Everything
Thieves
Book
Jews

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You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.
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Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.
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Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.
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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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I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
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I like to tell students, 'I didn't burst on to the literary scene.' I'm never good at things at the beginning. I was terrible at the start. I need to work and work.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: 'Get it done, get it done.' So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.
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The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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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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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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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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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.
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I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.
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