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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Looked
Lungs
Sweet
Shoulder
Scrawled
Wall
German
Magnificently
Hand
Stood
Jagged
Practice
Jewish
Breathed
Words
Jew
Childlike
Girl
Hidden
Slept
Hands
Shoulders
Stairs

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If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.
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The commitment had disappeared, and although he still watched the imagined glory of stealing, she could see now he was not believing. He was trying to believe it, and that’s never a good sign.
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The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
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He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.
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Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.
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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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July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.
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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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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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We expressed love for this dog by ... knowing without showing that we cared for him.
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It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.
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No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.
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And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.
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I am hunted by humans.
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His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.
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The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.
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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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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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I s'pose, I can't have it all my own way, can I? You can't drown in a person unless they let you.
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