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When death captures me, the boy vowed, he will feel my fist in his face. (31.26)

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Face
Faces
Death
Vowed
Book
Captures
Feel
Fist
Feels
Fists
Capture
Boys

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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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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My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.
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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.
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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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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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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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Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
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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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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
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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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I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.
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You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I've seen millions of them. I've seen more eclipses than I care to remember
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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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...to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent.
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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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We're silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I'm the older one and should therefore initiate conversation. But I don't. I don't want to waste this girl with idle chitchat. She's beautiful.
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