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The flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Doors
Sleeves
Behinds
Jackets
Arms
Pockets
Crumpled
Behind
Walked
Slammed
Feet
Reached
Collar
Hands
Warm
Dragged
Door
Collars
Okay
Jacket

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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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... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
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When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.
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Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.
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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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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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Fear is shiny. Ruthless in the eyes.
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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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When a person's last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.
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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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Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.
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Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy 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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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.
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I try hard and aim big. People can hate or love my books but they can never accuse me of not trying.
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Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.
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It's insane to be a writer and not be a reader. When I'm writing I'm more likely to be reading four or five books at once, just in bits and pieces rather than subjecting myself to a really brilliant book and thinking, Well what's the point of me writing anything? I'm more likely to read a book through when I take a break from writing.
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