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As a child in Sydney, my German Mum and my Austrian Dad would spontaneously tell me stories about what they saw and what they did as children. It was like a piece of Europe coming into our house... Those stories led me to my writing.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Children
Saws
Writing
Europe
Austrian
Would
Pieces
Spontaneously
Like
Coming
Sydney
Child
Mum
House
German
Tell
Dad
Stories
Piece

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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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Even death has a heart.
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Please, trust me, I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
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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 silence was always the greates temptation.
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It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them
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She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
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I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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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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...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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A happening was looming. It was out there somewhere beyond the regular enclosed life that I had been living. It was out there, not waiting, but existing. Being. Perhaps it was only slightly wondering if I would come to it.
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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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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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As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.
Markus Zusak