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Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Hear
Father
Accordions
Looks
Accordion
Sometimes
Breathes
Think
Papa
Thinking
Smiles
Breathe
Notes

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for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.
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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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Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.
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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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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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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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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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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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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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The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
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They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: 'Get it done, get it done.' So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.
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You can do anything when it's not real.
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I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.
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But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.
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