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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
Stones
Emeralds
Bottom
Crossed
Deserve
Bridge
Hear
Bridges
Rich
River
Water
Glorious
Song
Familiar
World
Rivers
Emerald

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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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I guess when someone tells you something they they usually guard, you feel privileged, not because you know something no-one else knows, but because you feel chosen. You feel like that person wants her life to intersect with yours. I think that's what felt best about it.
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A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?
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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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...one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.
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Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.
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You don't shoot a dog when it is already dead.
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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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Why me?' I ask God. God says nothing. I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.
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Living in Sydney, I've taken the chance to start surfing again. One of my best memories of growing up is catching my first proper wave and surfing across it and my brother cheering at me from the shore.
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The first couple of times, he simply stayed - a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered “Shhh, I’m here, its alright.” After three weeks, he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man’s gentleness, his thereness.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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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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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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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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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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