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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Years
Things
Eleven
Stupid
Year
Girl
Many

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A REASSURING ANNOUNCEMENT Please, be calm, despite that previous threat. I am all bluster - I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.
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The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.
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Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.
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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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You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I've seen millions of them. I've seen more eclipses than I care to remember
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I’m Angelina,” she says. “Are you here to save us?” I can see a tiny spark of hope awaken in her eyes. “You’re right, Angelina - I’m here to save you.” “Can you? Really?” “I’ll try,” I say and the girl smiles.
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If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.
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Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. (p.36)
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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.
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She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.
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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.
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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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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 realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.
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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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Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
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You don't always get what you wish for. Especially in Nazi Germany
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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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