Markus Zusak Quotes - Page 4

... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

...one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.

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.

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

So many humans. So many colors.

He killed himself for wanting to live.

Rudy handed it back. "Speaking of which, I think we're both slightly in for it when we get home. You especially." "Why me?" "You know- your mama." "What about her?" Liesel was exercising the blatant right of every person who's ever belonged to a family. 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.

The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help. They ignore the reality that a new version of the same old problem will be waiting at the end of the trip- the relative you cringe to kiss.

The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole. . .

Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.

When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.

You can do anything when it's not real.

I think that as a writer your responsibility is to search for and stir up the things that are in this world. There is violence in all of us, and beauty, and strength, and weakness. What's my job? To only write about the good and the beauty, or is it to write about all of it? That's my greater responsibility, to write about them as I see them and as they are.

Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.

His eyes were cold and brown - like coffee stains.

When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist in his face." (31.26)

It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

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.

They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: 'Get it done, get it done.' So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.

A REASSURING ANNOUNCEMENT Please, be calm, despite that previous threat. I am all bluster - I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.

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?

And they would all smile at the beauty of destruction.

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.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.