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She was like a lone angel floating above the surface of the earth, laughing with delight because she could fly but crying out of loneliness.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Earth
Floating
Like
Crying
Loneliness
Delight
Surface
Angel
Cry
Laughing
Lone

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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
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There are moments when you can only stand and stare, watching the world forget you as you remove yourself from it - when you overcome it and cease to exist as the person you were.
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I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.
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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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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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Everything was good. But it was awful, too.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
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...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
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When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.
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How does it feel, anyway? How does what feel? When you take one of those books? At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wants an answer, he'd have to come back, and he did. Well? he asked, but again, it was the boy who replied, before Liesel could even open her mouth. It feels good, doesn't it? To steal something back.
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She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.
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I think 'The Lord Of The Rings' is the mother of all cult books, because you can be in that cult and not even know you're in it.
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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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Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.
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I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.
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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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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.
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