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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
Wall
German
Magnificently
Hand
Stood
Jagged
Practice
Jewish
Breathed
Words
Jew
Childlike
Girl
Hidden
Slept
Hands
Shoulders
Stairs
Looked
Lungs
Sweet
Shoulder
Scrawled
More quotes by Markus Zusak
The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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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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Even death has a heart.
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You can do anything when it's not real.
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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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I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Markus Zusak
Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
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I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.
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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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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.
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Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.
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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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You don't shoot a dog when it is already dead.
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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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But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
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You should give it to Max, Liesel. See if you can leave it on the bedside table, like all the other things. Liesel watched him as if he'd gone insane. How, though? Lightly, he tapped her skull with his knuckles. Memorize it. Then write it down for him.
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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.
Markus Zusak
It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.
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There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.
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