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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
Loved
Skins
Cheek
Hand
Mouth
Cheeks
Waiting
Speaking
Neck
Didn
Likely
Necks
Hands
Kissing
Drag
Wanted
Mouths
Pull
Matter
Across
Kiss
Always
Empty
Skin
Restricted

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Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage - cold and heavy, slippery and gray - but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars.
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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
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I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.
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It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them
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You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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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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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
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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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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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… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.
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Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
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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.
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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.
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