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Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Enemy
Away
Even
Inch
Inches
Enemies
Friendship

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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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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.
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You can do anything when it's not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.
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You can do anything when it's not real.
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How'd it feel? Rube asked himself. I don't know exactly, but it made me want to howl.
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She was like a lone angel floating above the surface of the earth, laughing with delight because she could fly but crying out of loneliness.
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He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
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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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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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THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.
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How about a kiss, Saumensch?
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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
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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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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: 'Get it done, get it done.' So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.
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It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.
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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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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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The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.
Markus Zusak