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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Might
Waiting
Cringe
Trying
Help
Trip
Always
Moving
Version
Helping
Relative
Keep
Ignore
Reality
Versions
Ends
Kiss
Relocating
Problem
Kissing
Impoverished

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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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Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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Have faith, Ed, all right?' I search the coffee mug, but there's none in there.
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She was like a lone angel floating above the surface of the earth, laughing with delight because she could fly but crying out of loneliness.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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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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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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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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It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words. You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this.
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I try hard and aim big. People can hate or love my books but they can never accuse me of not trying.
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I had to decide what I was going to do, and what I was going to be. I was standing there, waiting for someone to do something , till I realised the person I was waiting for was myself.
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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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You can't eat books, sweetheart.
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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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I s'pose, I can't have it all my own way, can I? You can't drown in a person unless they let you.
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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.
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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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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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