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
running laughing moments
We both laugh and run and the moment is so thick around me that i feel like dropping into it to let it carry me.
laughter knowing laughing
If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter.
running reality laughing
Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do.
stars laughing watches
Why me?' I ask God. God says nothing. I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.
loneliness angel laughing
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.
trying firsts colour
First the colours. Then the humans. That’s usually how I see things. Or at least, how I try.
humans
I am haunted by humans.
child gem love page playing
I like the idea 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.
books books-and-reading step teenage
So many teenage books say, 'This is in your voice, this is about you,' and that's great. We really need that. But we also need books that say, 'This is also for you, but you need to come up here, to step up to this.
running winning years
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.
two world week
Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.
voice not-sure rumours
My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
dog fall doors
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.
memories heart air
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.