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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: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Always
Moving
Version
Helping
Relative
Keep
Ignore
Reality
Versions
Ends
Kiss
Relocating
Problem
Kissing
Impoverished
Might
Waiting
Cringe
Trying
Help
Trip

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The night is alive with stars, and when I lie down and look up, I get lost up there. I feel like I’m falling, but upward, into the abyss of sky above me.
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Make sure you live,' she said. 'As decent as you can. I know you'll make mistakes, but sometimes you're meant to, okay?
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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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But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the start that you're going to win it.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
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The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs, jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder. They breathed. German and Jewish lungs.
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It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
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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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Failure has been my best friend as a writer. It tests you, to see if you have what it takes to see it through.
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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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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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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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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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There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.
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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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No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.
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Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
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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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Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.
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