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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
Inside
Torn
Words
Flames
Crowd
Print
Crowds
Sentences
Waved
Burning
Dissolved
Paper
Orange

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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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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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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.
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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.
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You can do anything when it's not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.
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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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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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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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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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As a child in Sydney, my German Mum and my Austrian Dad would spontaneously tell me stories about what they saw and what they did as children. It was like a piece of Europe coming into our house... Those stories led me to my writing.
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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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You can do anything when it's not real.
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..As always, she was carrying the washing. Rudy was carrying two buckets of cold water, or as he put it, two buckets of future ice.
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You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.
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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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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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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
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