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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Firm
Laundry
Warm
Cliffs
Knew
July
Live
Chair
Chairs
Michael
Rafters
Wanting
Jumped
Killed
Cliff

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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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You don't shoot a dog when it is already dead.
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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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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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***A KEY WORD*** Imagined
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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'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.
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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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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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I like to tell students, 'I didn't burst on to the literary scene.' I'm never good at things at the beginning. I was terrible at the start. I need to work and work.
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The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.
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When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.
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When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.
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Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.
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It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.
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Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.
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But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.
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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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