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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Many
Abandonment
Unconditional
Recognition
Proof
Told
Loved
Times
Matter

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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I certainly wasn't born with creative writing. Maybe there's a certain amount of learning and then it's up to the person. I think in the end it's your favourite books that are the best teachers. That's the way I've learned the most, by far.
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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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It’s all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members, but they won’t let anyone else do it. That’s when you get your back up and show loyalty.
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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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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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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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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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A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?
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Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.
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I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.
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July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.
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Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
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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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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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I read some books that were the right books for me. I read them and I didn't even notice turning the pages anymore. I thought, That's what I want to do with my life.
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Liesel shrugged away entirely from the crowd and entered the tide of Jews, weaving through them till she grabbed hold of his arm with her left hand. His face fell on her. It reached down as she tripped, and the Jew,the nasty Jew, helped her up. It took all of his strength.
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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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You can do anything when it's not real.
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