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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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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.
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He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.
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The bombs were coming-and so was I.
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She was a girl with a mountain to climb.
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The night is alive with stars, and when I lie down and look up, I get lost up there. I feel like I’m falling, but upward, into the abyss of sky above me.
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She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.
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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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Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth.
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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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Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.
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As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.
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