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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Water
Glorious
Song
Familiar
World
Rivers
Emerald
Stones
Emeralds
Bottom
Crossed
Deserve
Bridge
Hear
Bridges
Rich
River

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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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He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
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Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.
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Even death has a heart.
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The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.
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The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the opposition when you've heard rumors that he might be injured or sick-but there he is, warming up with the rest of them, ready to take the field.
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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.
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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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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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I had to decide what I was going to do, and what I was going to be. I was standing there, waiting for someone to do something , till I realised the person I was waiting for was myself.
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She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
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Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.
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They'd been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.
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Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.
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Have faith, Ed, all right?' I search the coffee mug, but there's none in there.
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The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.
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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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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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