Top 412 Quotes & Sayings by Markus Zusak - Page 2

You can do anything when it's not real.

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. . .

Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.

It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.

His eyes were cold and brown - like coffee stains.

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

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.

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

You'll have days of complete lack of faith in your abilities. But you have to keep coming back. That's when you know you're a writer - when you take the failures and appear at the desk again, over and over again.

Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

So many humans. So many colors.

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.

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.

She was like a lone angel floating above the surface of the earth, laughing with delight because she could fly but crying out of loneliness.

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.

She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen. With wonder, she smiled. That such a room existed!

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

Summer came. For the book thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews. When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower.

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.

Goodbye, Papa, you saved me. You taught me to read. No one can play like you. I'll never drink champagne. No one can play like you." -Liesel

I am hunted by humans.

He killed himself for wanting to live.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

She leaned down and looked at his lifeless face and Leisel kissed her best friend, Rudy Steiner, soft and true on his lips. He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist's suit collection. She kissed him long and soft, and when she pulled herself away, she touched his mouth with her fingers...She did not say goodbye. She was incapable, and after a few more minutes at his side, she was able to tear herself from the ground. It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on.

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

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

I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.

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.

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

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

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

I like that every page in every book can have a gem on it. It's probably what I love most about writing--that words can be used in a way that's like a child playing in a sandpit, rearranging things, swapping them around. They're the best moments in a day of writing -- when an image appears that you didn't know would be there when you started work in the morning.

It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.

No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.

Make no mistake, the woman had a heart. She had a bigger one that people would think. There was a lot in it, stored up, high in miles of hidden shelving. Remember that she was the woman with the instrument strapped to her body in the long, moon-slit night.

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

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

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.

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

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.

And they would all smile at the beauty of destruction.

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

Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

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

She took a step and didn't want to take any more, but she did.

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

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.

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

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?

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

Very suddenly. Yes, quite suddenly, I didn't feel like I could handle my feeling of aloneness.

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.