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But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 50
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Guards
Throws
Stones
Wait
Waiting
Happiness

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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.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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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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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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She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.
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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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Everything was good. But it was awful, too.
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The best word shakers were the ones who understood the true power of words. They were the ones who could climb the highest. One such word shaker was a small, skinny girl. She was renowned as the best word shaker of her region because she knew how powerless a person could be WITHOUT words.
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Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
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Liesel shrugged away entirely from the crowd and entered the tide of Jews, weaving through them till she grabbed hold of his arm with her left hand. His face fell on her. It reached down as she tripped, and the Jew,the nasty Jew, helped her up. It took all of his strength.
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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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Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
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Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
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Why me?' I ask God. God says nothing. I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.
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Even death has a heart.
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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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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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Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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