Markus Zusak Quotes - Page 12

Can a wolfe be beautiful?

She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on that man's first night in Molching. She was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl. (84.25)

I suppose he'll die soon. I'm expecting it, like you do for a dog that's seventeen. There's no way to know how I'll react. He'll have faced his own placid death and slipped without a sound inside himself. Mostly, I imagine I'll crouch there at the door, fall onto him, and cry hard into the stench of his fur. I'll wait for him to wake up, but he won't. I'll bury him. I'll carry him outside, feeling his warmth turn to cold as the horizon frays and falls down in my backyard. For now, though, he's okay. I can see him breathing. He just smells like he's dead.

She even touches Jimmy's face on the photos, and I see what it is to love someone like Milla loved that man. Her fingertips are made of love.

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

I'm sorry. I shouldn't be asking such things...' She let the sentence die its own death

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her.

...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.

You don't shoot a dog when it is already dead.

And I stop listening to me, because to put it bluntly, I tire me.

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.

He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.

She was a girl with a mountain to climb.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

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.

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

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 conversation of bullets.

He left Himmel Street wearing his hangover and a suit.

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

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

I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.

I traveled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.

So many humans. So many colours. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the opposition when you've heard rumors that he might be injured or sick-but there he is, warming up with the rest of them, ready to take the field.