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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
Little
Basements
Presents
Christmas
Beginning
Food
Greatest
Littles
Snowman
Ever
Basement

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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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Because you don't learn anything unless you can find the patience to read. TV takes that away from you. It robs you from your mind.
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THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.
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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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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
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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 flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.
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The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
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All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.
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You cannot be afraid, Read the book. Smile at it. It's a great book-the greatest book you've ever read.
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The conversation of bullets.
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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 want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.
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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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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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for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.
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Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage - cold and heavy, slippery and gray - but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars.
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