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I'm asking you, I'm begging you, could you please shut your mouth for just five minutes? You can imagine the reaction. They ended up in the basement.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Five
Reactions
Shut
Mouth
Mouths
Basement
Asking
Basements
Please
Begging
Minutes
Reaction
Imagine
Ended

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My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
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Have faith, Ed, all right?' I search the coffee mug, but there's none in there.
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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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They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of souls. Was it fate?Misfortune?Is that what glued them down like that?Of course not.Let's not be stupid.It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds.
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If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.
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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.
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The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
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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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Competence was attractive.
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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
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The conversation of bullets.
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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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To me the question is always this: if a ray of light came out of the sky and said, Your next book will never be published - would you still write it? If the answer is yes, the book is worth writing.
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Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.
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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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But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
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I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.
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