Quotes from Markus Zusak

Normalmente vamos por la vida reyéndonos constantemente lo que nos decimos. «Estoy bien», decimos. «Estoy genial.» Pero de vez en cuando la verdad se te echa encima y no puedes sacudírtela. Entonces te das cuenta de que a menudo esa verdad no es una respuesta, sino una pregunta. Incluso ahora, me pregunto hasta qué punto me convence mi vida.

We don't need a point, son. We're juvenile, we're dirty, we don't have girls, we have noses full of snot, throats sore as hell, we've got scabs on us, we suffer bouts of acne, we've got no girls ... What more reasons do we need?

Liesel was sure her mother carried the memory of him, slung over her shoulder. She dropped him. She saw his feet and legs and body slap the platform.

But now those thoughts weren't thoughts at all, they were clouds of landed punches, and every one fell true.

I've come to the realization that I really only want to write books that maybe I can't write.

Then came Hitler.

He was built like a very small supermarket: Compact; expensive if you crossed him.

Words are so heavy, she thought, but as the night wore on, she was able to complete eleven pages

Un niño y una niña se entrelazaban en Münchenstrasse. Se retorcían, incómodos, en el asfalto. Juntos, vieron desaparecer a los humanos. Los vieron disolverse en el aire húmedo como si fueran grageas en movimiento.

He seemed to resonate with a kind of confidence that life was still nothing but a joke - an endless succession of soccer goals, trickery, and a constant repertoire of meaningless chatter.

Life had altered in the wildest possible way, but it was imperative that they act as if nothing at all had happened.

I never did get around to praying for myself, did I? Maybe that's what was behind it, though. Myself. Maybe the only reason I'd prayed for others to begin with was to bring myself good fortune. Was that true? Was it?

Have me, they said, and there was no stopping them. They were frightened, no question, but they were not afraid of me. It was a fear of messing up and having to face themselves again, and facing the world, and the likes of you. There was nothing I could do. They had too many ways, they were too resourceful - and when they did it too well, whatever their chosen method, I was in no position to refuse.

I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair and surprise.

A Jew had once saved his life and he couldn't forget that. He couldn't join a party that antagonized people in such a way... Like many of the Jews believed, he didn't think the hatred could last...

So many humans. So many colors. 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-colored clouds, beating like black hearts. And then. There is death.

There's a multitude of stories (...) that I allow to distract me as I work, just as the colours do. I pick them up in the unluckiest, unlikliest places and I make sure to remember them as I go about my work. The Book Thief is one such story.

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.

Hay algo peor que un chico que te odie? Un chico que te quiera

It was pointless. The crowd was itself. There was no swaying it, squeezing through, or reasoning with it. You breathed with it and you sang its songs. You waited for its fire.

What someone says and what happened are usually two different things.

Usually it was like spillage- cold and heavy, slippery and gray- but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes.

No snapping, slapping, no jolt. Those things happen when you wake from a bad dream, not when you wake into one.

Sometimes she sat against the wall, longing for the warm finger of paint to wander just once more down the side of her nose, or to watch the sandpaper texture of her papa's hands. If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter and bread with only the scent of jam spread out on top of it. It was the best time of her life.