Quote

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
Eye
Measured
Thought
Awake
Trying
Wide
Time
Forward
Like
Stay
Silence
Sleep
Snarls
Eyes
Drops

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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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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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
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But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the start that you're going to win it.
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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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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 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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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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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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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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Rosa Hubermann was sitting on the edge of the bed with her husband's accordion tied to her chest. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She did not move. She didn't ever appear to be breathing.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.
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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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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. . .
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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 thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.
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To me the question is always this: if a ray of light came out of the sky and said, Your next book will never be published - would you still write it? If the answer is yes, the book is worth writing.
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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
Markus Zusak