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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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It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them
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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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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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I like to tell students, 'I didn't burst on to the literary scene.' I'm never good at things at the beginning. I was terrible at the start. I need to work and work.
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No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.
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My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
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The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
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Yes, I know it. In the darkness of my dark beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it alright. You see? Even Death Has A Heart.
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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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If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.
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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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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 think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
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For a moment, I panic. It's that feeling of falling when you know without question, that you've lost control of your car, or made a mistake that's beyond repair. 'What do I do now?' I ask desperately. 'Tell me! What do I do now?' He remains calm. He looks at me closely and says, 'Keep living, Ed... It's only the pages that stop here.
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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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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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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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I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.
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