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I even move out onto the front porch and see my own limited view of the world. I want to take that world, and for the first time ever, I feel like I can do it. I’ve survived everything I’ve had to so far. I’m still standing here.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
World
Everything
View
First
Move
Porch
Take
Views
Survived
Feel
Moving
Onto
Feels
Stills
Limited
Even
Still
Fronts
Time
Ever
Front
Like
Firsts
Standing

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The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs, jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder. They breathed. German and Jewish lungs.
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Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
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Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.
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Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.
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The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced it.
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for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.
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She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.
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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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I read some books that were the right books for me. I read them and I didn't even notice turning the pages anymore. I thought, That's what I want to do with my life.
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Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
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I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.
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It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words. You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this.
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Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.
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My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
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