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The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole. . .
Markus Zusak
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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Ends
Hole
Today
Yellow
Long
Holes
Like
Clouds
Sky
Max
Sun
Stretched
Blue
Rope
Bigs
Cloud
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The conversation of bullets.
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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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The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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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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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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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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I had to decide what I was going to do, and what I was going to be. I was standing there, waiting for someone to do something , till I realised the person I was waiting for was myself.
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I try hard and aim big. People can hate or love my books but they can never accuse me of not trying.
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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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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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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: 'Get it done, get it done.' So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.
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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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You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.
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He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
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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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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.
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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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