Markus Zusak Quotes

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

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

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

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

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

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.. Markus Zusak

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?. Markus Zusak

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

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

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

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

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

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.. Markus

...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

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

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

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

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..

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

She kept watching the words. . Markus Zusak

She kept watching the words.

The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words

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

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?

Our own place is mall perhaps, but when your old man is eaten by his own shadow, you realise that maybe in every house, something so savage and sad and brilliant is standing up, without the world even seeing it.
Maybe that's what these pages of words are about:
Bringing the world to the window.

It feels like spoken words, this bridge. I want it but fear it. God, I want so desperately to reach the other side - just like I want the words. I want my words to build bridges strong enough to walk on. I want them to tower over the world so I can stand up on them and walk to the other side.

At first, all is black and white.
Black on white.
That's where I'm walking, through pages.
These pages.
Sometimes it gets so that I have one foot in the pages and the words, and the other in what they speak of.

They're brainless girls, otherwise they wouldn't be seen dead here. They're pretty, with ugly, appealing smiles and conversations we can't hear. They breathe smoke and blow it out, and words drop from their mouths and get crushed to the floor. Or they get discarded, just to glow with warmth for a moment, for someone else to tread on later.

I told her about school and how I sat on a wall there and felt stories and words move through me ...

If your eyes could speak, what would they say?

... I felt something and vowed that if I ever got a girl I would treat her right and never be bad or dirty to her or hurt her, ever. I vowed it and had all the confidence in the world that I would keep the vow.

If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.

She looks at the swings, and I can see she’s imagining what they’d look like if the kids weren’t there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them.

I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

There are so many moments to remember and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.... Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

I stood there and stared, into the sky and at the city around me. I stood, hands at my side, and I saw what had happened to me and who I was and the way things would always be for me. Truth. There was no more wishing, or wondering. I knew who I was, and what I would always do. I believed it, as my teeth touched and my eyes were overrun.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.

His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.

Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.

A SMALL PIECE OF TRUTH
I do not carry a sickle or scythe.
I only wear a hooded black robe when it's cold.
And I don't have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.

It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation.

***HERE IS A SMALL FACT***
You are going to die.

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.)

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.

Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.

And it would show me, once again, that one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.

Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

The bombs were coming-and so was I.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.

Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesn't usually wait for very long.

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones.
Papa was an accordion!
But his bellows were all empty.
Nothing went in and nothing came out.

I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out.

The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

For two days I went about my business. I travelled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.

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

I say His name in a futile attempt to understand. "But it's not your job to understand." That's me who answers. God never says anything. Tou think you're the only one he never answers?

***A KEY WORD***
Imagined

As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.

..As always, she was carrying the washing. Rudy was carrying two buckets of cold water, or as he put it, two buckets of future ice.

Best friends one, and now we have almost nothing to say to each other. It was interesting, how he had joined those guys and I just stayed on my own. I didn't like it or dislike it. It was just funny that things had turned out that way.

His church is the old one at the edge of town, and I now realize why he's chosen to live here. The church is too far away for him to really help anyone, so this is the best place for him. It's everywhere, on all sides and angles. This is where the father needs to be. Not in some church, gathering dust.

In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it, all right.

Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

My arms are killing me.
I didn't know words could be so heavy.

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

As always, one of her books was next to her.

How does it feel, anyway?"
How does what feel?"
When you take one of those books?"
At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wants an answer, he'd have to come back, and he did. "Well?" he asked, but again, it was the boy who replied, before Liesel could even open her mouth.
It feels good, doesn't it? To steal something back.

The book thief has struck for the first time – the beginning of an illustrious career.

I guess that’s the beauty of books. When they finish they don’t really finish.

The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.

All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.

At the end of the day, it’s still up to you, and that’s the beauty of books. In so many ways, they never really end.

I was always reading books when I should have been doing math and the rest of it.

Hals und Beinbruch, Saukerl.

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

It makes me wonder, Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or forget things? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives? I don't know.

It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.

My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.

Time will tell, I suppose, or at least, these pages will.

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.

I could smell something. Fear.
I could taste it now.
It tasted like blood in my mouth, and I could feel it slide through me and open me up when I saw him ...

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 the rain. (p. 85)

She was holding desperately on to the words who had saved her life." The Book Thief

A couple of them were school beauty-queen pretty while a few were that more real-looking type. A realer kind of pretty.

Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.

Disbelief held me down inside my footsteps, making my body heavy but my heart wild.

the threat of Jewish competition was taken away, but so were the Jewish customers

July 24, 6:03 A.M.
The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff...
Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing.
He killed himself for wanting to live.

The Hubbermanns had two of their own (children), but they were older and had moved out...Soon they would be both in the war. One would be making bullets. The other would be shooting them.

1. The desperate Jews - their spirits in my lap as we sat on the roof, next to the steaming chimneys.
2. The Russian soldiers - taking only small amounts of ammunition, relying on the fallen for the rest of it.
3. The soaked bodies of a French coast - beached on the shingle and sand.

No one else could carry close to forty-five thousand people in such a short amount of time. Not in a million human years.

So many people chased after me in that time, calling my name, asking me to take them with me. Then there was the small percentage who called me casually over and whispered with their tightend voices.

Stealing is what the army does. Taking your father, and mine.

Rosa Hubermann was sitting on the edge of the bed with her husband's accordion tied to her chest. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She did not move. She didn't ever appear to be breathing.

Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.

He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist’s suit collection.

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.

I guess humans like to watch a little destruction. Sand castles, houses of cards, that's where they begin. Their great skills is their capacity to escalate.

I'm just another stupid human.

I actually feel quite self-indulgent at the moment, telling you all about me, me, me.
(...)
On the other hand, you're a human -you should understand self obsession.

I kept walking. Have you ever done that? Just walk. Just walk and have no idea where you're going? It wasn't a good feeling, but not a bad one either. I felt caged and free at the same time, like it was only myself that wouldn't allow me to feel either great or miserable.

the music would look Liesel in the face. I know it sounds strange, but that’s how it felt to her.

It's much easier . . . to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.

So I saw that there was only me. There was only me who could worry about what was happening here, inside these walls of my life. Other people had their own worlds to worry about, and in the end, they had to fend for themselves, just like us.

I looked at myself in that window, oblivious to all the people around me and I stared and smiled that particular smile. You know that smile that seems to knock you and tell you how pathetic you are? That's the smile I was smiling.

People observe the colors of a day at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quiet clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment.

A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.

When finally she finished and stood herself up, he put his arm around her, best-buddy style, and they walked on. There was no request for a kiss. Nothing like that. You can love Rudy for that, if you like.

Steve, on the other hand, has plenty of friends, but he wouldn't bleed for any of them, because he wouldn't trust them to bleed for him. In that way he's just as alone as me.

a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

He switched off the light, came back and sat in the chair. In the darkness, Liesel kept her eyes open. She was watching the words.

If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.

His soul sat up. It met me.Those kinds of souls always do - the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, 'I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go of course, but I will come'.

I told her I loved the howling sound of her harmonica. That seemed to be the limit of my courage that night, and even those spoken words had to struggle their way out of my mouth. It's all very well for words to build bridges, but sometimes I think it's a matter of knowing when to do it. Knowing when the time's right.

I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.

That paper-
it sits there, open at the employment section. It sits there like a war, and each small advertisement is another trench for a person to dive into. To hope and fight in.

The color of defeat chokes her pupils, even though her nod and smile and uncomfortable sitting motion on the couch indicate that she is not finished yet. She will carry on, like all of us.
Smile stubborn.
Smile with instinct, then lick your wounds in the darkest of corners. Trace the scars back to your own fingers and remember them.

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

Ed?" Ritchie says later. We're still standing in the water. "There's only one thing I want."
"What's that, Ritchie?"
His answer is simple.
"To want.

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.

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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