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Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Around
Nose
Way
Noses
Gushes
Southern
Sniff
Lips
Savagery
Air
Bleed
Blood
Noisy
Fear
Hurry
Away
Wipe

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I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.
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The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced it.
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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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Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.
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You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.
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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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The night is alive with stars, and when I lie down and look up, I get lost up there. I feel like I’m falling, but upward, into the abyss of sky above me.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.
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Make sure you live,' she said. 'As decent as you can. I know you'll make mistakes, but sometimes you're meant to, okay?
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Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage - cold and heavy, slippery and gray - but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars.
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The conversation of bullets.
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The silence was always the greates temptation.
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It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words. You bastards, she thought. You lovely bastards. Don’t make me happy. Please, don’t fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this.
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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
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An attribute of Rosa Hubermann, she was a good woman for a crisis.
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As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. That's what she wrote about them . . . Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone to step forward and catch them in their arms. No one did.
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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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Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
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