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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Silver
Kindness
Eyes
Eye
Father
Made
Strangeness
Foster
Observed

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When I was a teenager I decided I was going to be a writer and that nothing was going to stop me. It sounds almost villainous. But I knew that was what I wanted.
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an expression of surprise falls from her face, though she's trying to keep it. it breaks off and she seems to catch it and fidget with it in her hands.
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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.
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A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)
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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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How'd it feel? Rube asked himself. I don't know exactly, but it made me want to howl.
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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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When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.
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Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.
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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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But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
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It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.
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A happening was looming. It was out there somewhere beyond the regular enclosed life that I had been living. It was out there, not waiting, but existing. Being. Perhaps it was only slightly wondering if I would come to it.
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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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She looks at the swings, and I can see she’s imagining what they’d look like if the kids weren’t there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them. I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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How does it feel, anyway? How does what feel? When you take one of those books? At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wants an answer, he'd have to come back, and he did. Well? he asked, but again, it was the boy who replied, before Liesel could even open her mouth. It feels good, doesn't it? To steal something back.
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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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Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.
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