Quotes from Markus Zusak

Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces. Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white.

There are so many moments to remember and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.... Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.

I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.

Already, I know that all of this will stay with me forever. It'll haunt me, but I also fear it will make me feel grateful. I say fear because at times I really don't want this to be a fond memory until it's over. I also fear that nothing really ends at the en. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

It was Russia, January 5, 1943, and just another icy day. Out among the city and snow, there were dead Russians and Germans everywhere. Those who remained were firing into the blank pages in front of them. Three languages interwove. The Russian, the bullets, the German.

You're far from this. This story is just another few hundred pages of your mind.

Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?

Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.

and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.

Whoever named Himmel Street certainly had a healthy sense of irony. Not that is was a living hell. It wasn't. But is sure as hell wasn't heaven, either.

But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the start that you're going to win it.

There was once a strange, small man. He decided three important details about his life: 1. He would part his hair from the opposite side to everyone else. 2. He would make himself a small, strange mustache. 3. He would one day rule the world. ...Yes, the Fuhrer decided that he would rule the world with words.

The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.

Yes, I know it. In the darkness of my dark beating heart, I know. He'd have loved it alright. You see? Even Death Has A Heart.

Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

My heart applauds inside my ears, first like a roaring crowd, then slows and slows until it's a solitary person, clapping with unbridled sarcasm. Clap. Clap. Clap. Well done, Ed. Well given up.

The Germans in basements were pitiable, surely, but at least they had a chance. That basement was not a washroom. They were not sent there for a shower. For those people, life was still achievable.

Mistakes, mistakes, it's all I seem capable of at times.

it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn't quite managed.

How 'bout a kiss, Saumensch ? -- Rudy Steiner

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out, like the rain. (p. 85)