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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Burning
Dissolved
Paper
Orange
Inside
Torn
Words
Flames
Crowd
Print
Crowds
Sentences
Waved

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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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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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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Competence was attractive.
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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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You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.
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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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I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.
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...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
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It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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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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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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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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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
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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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Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.
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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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