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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: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Books
Nicely
Came
Thief
Everything
Thieves
Book
Jews
Going
Jew
Sky
Summer
Color

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There are moments when you can only stand and stare, watching the world forget you as you remove yourself from it - when you overcome it and cease to exist as the person you were.
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You don't always get what you wish for. Especially in Nazi Germany
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When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.
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People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
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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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When death captures me, the boy vowed, he will feel my fist in his face. (31.26)
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You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.
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He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
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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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Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. (p.36)
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All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.
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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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How'd it feel? Rube asked himself. I don't know exactly, but it made me want to howl.
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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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But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.
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The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the opposition when you've heard rumors that he might be injured or sick-but there he is, warming up with the rest of them, ready to take the field.
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You don't shoot a dog when it is already dead.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.
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