Markus Zusak
Markus Zusak
Markus Frank Zusak,is an Australian writer. He is best known for The Book Thief and The Messenger, two novels for young adults which have been international best-sellers. He won the annual Margaret Edwards Award in 2014 for his contribution to young-adult literature published in the US...
NationalityAustralian
ProfessionYoung Adult Author
Date of Birth23 June 1975
CountryAustralia
pain writing punishment
...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.
moving sadness pride
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.
unconditional-love matter recognition
No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.
hate believe love-hate
Believe it or not--it takes a lot of love to hate you like this.
life mean funeral
I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
smell pages taste
She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.
book writing giving
If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.
bigs big-things small-things
It's not a big thing, but I guess it's true--big things are often just small things that are noticed.
needs students scene
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.
waiting wonder happenings
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.
book pages want
I read some books that were the right books for me. I read them and I didn't even notice turning the pages anymore. I thought, "That's what I want to do with my life."
summer book doors
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.
love heartbreak sadness
He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
mistake heart moon
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.