Quote

Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Didn
Likely
Necks
Hands
Kissing
Drag
Wanted
Mouths
Pull
Matter
Across
Kiss
Always
Empty
Skin
Restricted
Loved
Skins
Cheek
Hand
Mouth
Cheeks
Waiting
Speaking
Neck

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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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I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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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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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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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.
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Soon evening worked its way into the sky, and the city hunched itself down.
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...to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent.
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I think 'The Lord Of The Rings' is the mother of all cult books, because you can be in that cult and not even know you're in it.
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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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They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of souls. Was it fate?Misfortune?Is that what glued them down like that?Of course not.Let's not be stupid.It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds.
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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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The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced 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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