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

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As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.
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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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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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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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But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
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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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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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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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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 had many boxing matches with my brother in the backyard when we were younger, and I guess while other people abhor boxing for its brutality, I also have to admire anyone who climbs into the ring to face up to what could be the ultimate defeat.
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We expressed love for this dog by ... knowing without showing that we cared for him.
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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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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 injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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There was once a strange, small man. He decided three important details about his life: 1. He would part his hair from the opposite side to everyone else. 2. He would make himself a small, strange mustache. 3. He would one day rule the world. ...Yes, the Fuhrer decided that he would rule the world with words.
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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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...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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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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