Markus Zusak Quotes

I had to decide what I was going to do, and what I was going to be. I was standing there, waiting for someone to do something , till I realised the person I was waiting for was myself.

You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.

In the basement of 33 Himmel Street, Max Vandenburg could feel the fists of an entire nation. One by one they climbed into the ring to beat him down. They made him bleed. They let him suffer. Millions of them - until one last time, when he gathered himself to his feet.

I read some books that were the right books for me. I read them and I didn't even notice turning the pages anymore. I thought, "That's what I want to do with my life."

The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.

The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.

Because you don't learn anything unless you can find the patience to read. TV takes that away from you. It robs you from your mind.

I walked home, seeing all my doubt from the other side. Have you ever seen that? Like when you go on holiday. On the way back, everything is the same but it looks a little different than it did on the way. It's because you're seeing it backwards.

Clearly," said Arthur,"you're an idiot- but you're our kind of idiot. Come on.

A book floated down the Amper River. A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and held it in his right hand. He grinned. He stood waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water. “How about a kiss, Saumensch?” he said.

The dilemma, of course, is that such people save their most important words for after, when the surrounding humans are unlucky enough to find them.

Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. (p.36)

I am hunted by humans.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.

Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?

I think, as the writer, you're always going to mourn something [left out of a film]. But you also just want to know there's a good reason for it being left out. On the whole, you want to give something to somebody creative. The worst thing you can do is say, "Here, be creative, but do it like I want you to do it." I was always very mindful of that.

A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)

But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the start that you're going to win it.

She rubbed her eyes, and after a long study of his face, she spoke "Is it really you?" Is it from your cheek, she thought, that I took the seed? The man nodded. His heart wobbled and he held tighter to the branches. It is.

I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.

Something I'd like to be perfect at? ... Loving you,' I said. The words climbed from my mouth. 'I'd want to be perfect at loving you.

I love and hate this place because it is full of words.

After perhaps thirty meters, just as a soldier turned around, the girl was felled. Hands were clamped upon her from behind and the boy next door brought her down. He forced her knees to the road and suffered the penalty. He collected her punches as if they were presents. Her bony hands and elbows were accepted with nothing but a few short moans. He accumulated the loud, clumsy specks of saliva and tears as if they were lovely to his face, and more important, he was able to hold her down.

Possibly the only good to come out of these nightmares was that it brought Hans Hubermann, her new papa, into the room, to soothe her, to love her. He came every night and sat with her. The first couple of times, he simply stayed - a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered, "Shhh, I'm here, it's all right." After three weeks he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. The girl knew from the outset that Hans Hubermann would always appear midscream, and he would not leave. (36)

I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.

Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky, dark, dark chocolate.

That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

The thrill of being ignored!

She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen. With wonder, she smiled. That such a room existed!

A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?

20 minutes later: a girl on Himmel Street. She looks up. She speaks in whisper. 'The sky is soft today, Max. The clouds are so soft and sad, and...' She looks away and crosses her arms. She thinks of her papa going to war and grabs her jacket at each side of her body. 'And it's cold, Max. It's so cold.

Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.

You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.

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.

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.

I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.

The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.

Smile with instinct, then lick your wounds in the darkest of dark corners. Trace the scars back to your own fingers and remember them.

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.

It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.

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.

Warily, she dares to allow me a smile. "It's okay. It's just...I'm not too good at talking to people." She looks away again as her shyness smothers her. "So, do you think it'd be all right if we don't talk?

I wanted to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her. I wanted her pulse to crush me with its intensity. That's what I wanted. That's what I wanted myself to be.

...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.

The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?