Markus Zusak Quotes

So much good, so much evil. Just add water.

The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.

He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

Sometimes people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

Even death has a heart.

Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?

Why can’t the world hear? I ask myself. Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it doesn’t care, I finally answer, and I know I’m right. It’s like I’ve been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.

Usually we walk around constantly believing ourselves. "I'm okay" we say. "I'm alright". But sometimes the truth arrives on you and you can't get it off. That's when you realize that sometimes it isn't even an answer-it's a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

Very quickly, very suddenly, words fell through my mind. They landed on the floor of my thoughts, and in there, down there, I started to pick the words up. They were excerpts of truth gathered from inside me.

I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I even simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant...I AM HAUNTED BY HUMANS.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice.
As you may expect, someone has died.

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

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.

For a moment, I debated whether I should tell someone about the words I'd started writing down, but I couldn't. In a way, I felt ashamed, even though my writing was the one thing that whispered okayness in my ear. I didn't speak it, to anyone.

He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world.

She was the book thief without the words.

Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.

She was battered and beaten up, and not smiling this time. Liesel could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked at her lips. Her eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to the surface of her skin. All from the words. From Liesel's words.

The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.

She kept watching the words.

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