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It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Ever
Basement
Little
Basements
Presents
Christmas
Beginning
Food
Greatest
Littles
Snowman

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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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The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
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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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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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You can't eat books, sweetheart.
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I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.
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You can do anything when it's not real.
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I'm asking you, I'm begging you, could you please shut your mouth for just five minutes? You can imagine the reaction. They ended up in the basement.
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It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
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It's insane to be a writer and not be a reader. When I'm writing I'm more likely to be reading four or five books at once, just in bits and pieces rather than subjecting myself to a really brilliant book and thinking, Well what's the point of me writing anything? I'm more likely to read a book through when I take a break from writing.
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Competence was attractive.
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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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My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
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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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No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.
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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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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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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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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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Yes, I know it. In the darkness of my dark beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it alright. You see? Even Death Has A Heart.
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