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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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I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.
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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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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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When death captures me, the boy vowed, he will feel my fist in his face. (31.26)
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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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We're silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I'm the older one and should therefore initiate conversation. But I don't. I don't want to waste this girl with idle chitchat. She's beautiful.
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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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The conversation of bullets.
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..As always, she was carrying the washing. Rudy was carrying two buckets of cold water, or as he put it, two buckets of future ice.
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You should give it to Max, Liesel. See if you can leave it on the bedside table, like all the other things. Liesel watched him as if he'd gone insane. How, though? Lightly, he tapped her skull with his knuckles. Memorize it. Then write it down for him.
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It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.
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...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
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Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.
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I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of 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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Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.
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Failure has been my best friend as a writer. It tests you, to see if you have what it takes to see it through.
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Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.
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It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.
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As a child in Sydney, my German Mum and my Austrian Dad would spontaneously tell me stories about what they saw and what they did as children. It was like a piece of Europe coming into our house... Those stories led me to my writing.
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