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… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Children
Street
Like
Rain
Raining
World
Tried
Dripping
Streets
Managed
Turn
Hasn
Quite
Ended
Child
Hardest
Turns
Sky

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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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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Yes, I know it. In the darkness of my dark beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it alright. You see? Even Death Has A Heart.
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People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
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The question is what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?
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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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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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She was a girl with a mountain to climb.
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I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.
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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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The flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.
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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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...to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent.
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Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.
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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.
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He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.
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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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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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It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.
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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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