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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
Markus Zusak
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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Glowing
Lights
Small
Bigs
Light
Things
More quotes by Markus Zusak
The conversation of bullets.
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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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The flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.
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The question is what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?
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They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of souls. Was it fate?Misfortune?Is that what glued them down like that?Of course not.Let's not be stupid.It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds.
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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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You don't always get what you wish for. Especially in Nazi Germany
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You can't eat books, sweetheart.
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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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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.
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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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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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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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How about a kiss, Saumensch?
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It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.
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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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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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Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?
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We're silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I'm the older one and should therefore initiate conversation. But I don't. I don't want to waste this girl with idle chitchat. She's beautiful.
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When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.
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