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My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Eyes
Drops
Eye
Measured
Thought
Awake
Trying
Wide
Time
Forward
Like
Stay
Silence
Sleep
Snarls

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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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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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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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But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
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We expressed love for this dog by ... knowing without showing that we cared for him.
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Soon evening worked its way into the sky, and the city hunched itself down.
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Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.
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As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.
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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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Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you've finished just to stay near it.
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Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.
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Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. (p.36)
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A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?
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Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.
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It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.
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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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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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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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A REASSURING ANNOUNCEMENT Please, be calm, despite that previous threat. I am all bluster - I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.
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The first couple of times, he simply stayed - a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered “Shhh, I’m here, its alright.” After three weeks, he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man’s gentleness, his thereness.
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