Quotes from Markus Zusak

I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They're running at me.

A crackling sound prompted her to think that the fire had already begun. It hadn't the noise was kinetic humans, flowing, charging up.

Make no mistake, this woman had a heart. She had a bigger one than 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. She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on a man's first night in Molching. And she was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl.

One thing I've noticed about the Germans: They seem very fond of pigs.

era una buena chica. Mantenía la boca cerrada allí donde iba. Llevaba el secreto enterrado muy adentro.

Saukerl, musitó Liesel riendo y, cuando levantó la mano, supo sin lugar a dudas que él a su vez la estaba llamando Saumensch. A los once años, creo que es lo más parecido al amor que podían experimentar.

He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again, and would go to his grave without them.

She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly when the books and the words started not just to mean something, but everything.

No one had ever given her music before.

Los jóvenes siguen siendo niños y los niños a veces tienen derecho a ser cabezotas.

A human doesn't have a heart like mine. The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that I'm always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

Was he really a coward, as his son had so brutally pointed out? Certainly, in World War I, he considered himself one. He attributed his survival to it. But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived? - Hans Hubermann

It's also worthy of mention that every pattern has at least one small bias, and one day it will tip itself over or fall from one page to another.

The young man wandered around for quite some time, thinking, planning, and figuring out exactly how to make the world his. Then one day, out of nowhere, it struck him—the perfect plan. He'd seen a mother walking with her child. At one point, she admonished the small boy, until finally, he began to cry. Within a few minutes, she spoke very softly to him, after which he was soothed and even smiled.

All afternoon, I read. I fall asleep once as well, no disrespect to the writers.

Tal como Liesel descubrió, un buen ladrón necesita muchas cosas. Sigilo. Audacia. Resolución. Sin embargo, mucho más importante que todo lo demás era un último requisito: la suerte.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words so damning and brilliant.

We might be criminals, but we're not totally immoral. - Arthur Berg

With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man die—a safe merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the color of summer's skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing disappeared completely. "When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist on his face.

El misterio me aburre, es una lata. [...] Las intrigas que nos empujan hasta el final son las que me inquietan, me desconciertan, me pican la curiosidad y me asombran. Quedan muchas en las que pensar. Queda mucha historia.

Without words, the Fuhrer was nothing.

el crimen hablaba por sí solo.

They sat a few meters apart, speaking very rarely, and there was really only the noise of turning pages (…) Where Hans Hubermann and Erik Vandenburg were ultimately united by music, Max and Liesel were held together by the quiet gathering of words. Hi, Max. Hi, Liesel. They would sit and read.