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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
Sniff
Southern
Savagery
Lips
Bleed
Air
Noisy
Blood
Hurry
Fear
Wipe
Away
Nose
Around
Gushes
Way
Noses

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
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You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.
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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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I always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.
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Everything was good. But it was awful, too.
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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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Competence was attractive.
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A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.
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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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The day was gray, the color of Europe.
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As a child in Sydney, my German Mum and my Austrian Dad would spontaneously tell me stories about what they saw and what they did as children. It was like a piece of Europe coming into our house... Those stories led me to my writing.
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Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.
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It’s all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members, but they won’t let anyone else do it. That’s when you get your back up and show loyalty.
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I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.
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I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.
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The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
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Soon evening worked its way into the sky, and the city hunched itself down.
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Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.
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