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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
Okay
Jacket
Doors
Sleeves
Behinds
Jackets
Arms
Pockets
Crumpled
Behind
Walked
Slammed
Feet
Reached
Collar
Hands
Warm
Dragged
Door
Collars

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It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.
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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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To me the question is always this: if a ray of light came out of the sky and said, Your next book will never be published - would you still write it? If the answer is yes, the book is worth writing.
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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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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 am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.
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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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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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I’m Angelina,” she says. “Are you here to save us?” I can see a tiny spark of hope awaken in her eyes. “You’re right, Angelina - I’m here to save you.” “Can you? Really?” “I’ll try,” I say and the girl smiles.
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You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. I've seen millions of them. I've seen more eclipses than I care to remember
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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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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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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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There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.
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Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.
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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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It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them
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