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Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Forget
Music
Better
Hans
Ever
Paint
Behinds
Behind
Leave
Told

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A happening was looming. It was out there somewhere beyond the regular enclosed life that I had been living. It was out there, not waiting, but existing. Being. Perhaps it was only slightly wondering if I would come to it.
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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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I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.
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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage - cold and heavy, slippery and gray - but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars.
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It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.
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It’s all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members, but they won’t let anyone else do it. That’s when you get your back up and show loyalty.
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Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.
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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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You cannot be afraid, Read the book. Smile at it. It's a great book-the greatest book you've ever read.
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Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?
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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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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.
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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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Living in Sydney, I've taken the chance to start surfing again. One of my best memories of growing up is catching my first proper wave and surfing across it and my brother cheering at me from the shore.
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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.
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Everything was good. But it was awful, too.
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