Quote

She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Words
Onto
Didn
Dare
Look
Notes
Hauled
Looks
Played
Accordions
Feel
Inside
Accordion
Feels
Eyes
Breathed
Eye
Hanging
Voice
Frightened

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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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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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There are so many moments to remember and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.... Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.
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A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)
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Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.
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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
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His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.
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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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A REASSURING ANNOUNCEMENT Please, be calm, despite that previous threat. I am all bluster - I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.
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I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.
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***A KEY WORD*** Imagined
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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.
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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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She looks at the swings, and I can see she’s imagining what they’d look like if the kids weren’t there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them. I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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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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It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.
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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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