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

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Guards
Throws
Stones
Wait
Waiting
Happiness

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.
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Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.
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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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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
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***A KEY WORD*** Imagined
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It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.
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I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.
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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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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.
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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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The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs, jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder. They breathed. German and Jewish lungs.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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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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But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the start that you're going to win it.
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It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.
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I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.
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I guess when someone tells you something they they usually guard, you feel privileged, not because you know something no-one else knows, but because you feel chosen. You feel like that person wants her life to intersect with yours. I think that's what felt best about it.
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It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.
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