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You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Things
Little
Souls
Crank
Might
Likes
Escaping
Human
Increase
Argue
Humans
Year
Arguing
Matter
Race
Production
Sometimes
Littles
Productions
Years
Body
Rounds
Make
Soul
Bodies

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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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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 was a girl with a mountain to climb.
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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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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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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
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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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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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There are so many moments to remember and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.... Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging 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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She looks at the swings, and I can see she’s imagining what they’d look like if the kids weren’t there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them. I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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Soon evening worked its way into the sky, and the city hunched itself down.
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You can do anything when it's not real.
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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.
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...to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent.
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I look at her wish we could go inside and make love on the couch. Dive inside each other. Take each other. Make each other. Nothing happens, though.
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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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They'd been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.
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