Markus Zusak Quotes - Page 5

What do you want to kiss me for? I'm filthy.'- Liesel So am I.'- Rudy

Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. the accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

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

I'd rather chase the sun than wait for it.

Even death has a heart.

The water crumbles on it's way down as my hands and feet push me forward. The world is lightening, taking shape, and turning to color. It feels like it's being painted around me.

People have defining moments, i suppose, especially when they're children.

I like to tell students, 'I didn't burst on to the literary scene.' I'm never good at things at the beginning. I was terrible at the start. I need to work and work.

He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.

One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.

A happening was looming. It was out there somewhere beyond the regular enclosed life that I had been living. It was out there, not waiting, but existing. Being. Perhaps it was only slightly wondering if I would come to it.

It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.

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

Mistakes, mistakes, it's all I seem capable of at times.

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 last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.

The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.

He's most likely robbing the bank as a paycheck on the world for winning the ugliness prize at his local fete three years running.

***A Last note from your narrator*** I am haunted by humans.

An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.

It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them

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.

They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.

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