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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: 50
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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Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.
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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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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.
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I certainly wasn't born with creative writing. Maybe there's a certain amount of learning and then it's up to the person. I think in the end it's your favourite books that are the best teachers. That's the way I've learned the most, by far.
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I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.
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I had many boxing matches with my brother in the backyard when we were younger, and I guess while other people abhor boxing for its brutality, I also have to admire anyone who climbs into the ring to face up to what could be the ultimate defeat.
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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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It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
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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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If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.
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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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You can do anything when it's not real.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.
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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
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