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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.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Even
Streaming
Going
Marvel
Always
Manage
Tears
Ability
Faces
Keep
Humans
Stagger

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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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I say, 'Don't lose your heart, Rube.' And very clearly, without moving, my brother answers me. He says, 'I'm not tryin' to lose it, Cam. I'm tryin' to find it.
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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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The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.
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And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.
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When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.
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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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You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.
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I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
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Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.
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She was one if the few souls that made me wonder what's it to live.
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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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The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.
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You can't eat books, sweetheart.
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People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
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I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
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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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Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.
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She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
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There were stars. They burned my eyes.
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