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I think to be writer you have to enjoy being alone. I was a loner as a teenager and was always drawn to characters in books and films who were at the fringes.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Enjoy
Fringe
Film
Drawn
Character
Teenager
Book
Films
Always
Characters
Think
Writer
Thinking
Alone
Fringes
Books
Loner

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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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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We're silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I'm the older one and should therefore initiate conversation. But I don't. I don't want to waste this girl with idle chitchat. She's beautiful.
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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
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It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.
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Everything was good. But it was awful, too.
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There are moments when you can only stand and stare, watching the world forget you as you remove yourself from it - when you overcome it and cease to exist as the person you were.
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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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Even enemies were an inch away from friendship.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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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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Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
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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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I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.
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I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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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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Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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She was a girl with a mountain to climb.
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It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words. You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this.
Markus Zusak