Quote

Make sure you live,' she said. 'As decent as you can. I know you'll make mistakes, but sometimes you're meant to, okay?

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Okay
Mistake
Sure
Live
Sometimes
Make
Decent
Mistakes
Meant

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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You cannot be afraid, Read the book. Smile at it. It's a great book-the greatest book you've ever read.
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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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Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
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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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Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.
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Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.
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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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I say, 'Don't lose your heart, Rube.' And very clearly, without moving, my brother answers me. He says, 'I'm not tryin' to lose it, Cam. I'm tryin' to find it.
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Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.
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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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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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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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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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Even death has a heart.
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Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.
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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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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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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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As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.
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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.
Markus Zusak