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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: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Basement
Ever
Basements
Little
Presents
Christmas
Beginning
Food
Greatest
Snowman
Littles

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I think to be writer you have to enjoy being alone. I was a loner as a teenager and was always drawn to characters in books and films who were at the fringes.
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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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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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Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
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You don't always get what you wish for. Especially in Nazi Germany
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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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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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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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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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The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the opposition when you've heard rumors that he might be injured or sick-but there he is, warming up with the rest of them, ready to take the field.
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When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.
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I guess when someone tells you something they they usually guard, you feel privileged, not because you know something no-one else knows, but because you feel chosen. You feel like that person wants her life to intersect with yours. I think that's what felt best about it.
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… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.
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I always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.
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Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.
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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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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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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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The silence was always the greates temptation.
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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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