Markus Zusak

You'll have days of complete lack of faith in your abilities. But you have to keep coming back. That's when you know you're a writer - when you take the failures and appear at the desk again, over and over again.

Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

She let herself love me for three minutes. Can three minutes last forever? I ask myself, but already know the answer. Probably not, I reply. But maybe they last long enough.

Why me?' I ask God. God says nothing. I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.

Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.

If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.

Very quickly, very suddenly, words fell through my mind. They landed on the floor of my thoughts, and in there, down there, I started to pick the words up. They were excerpts of truth gathered from inside me.

Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.

I'm gonna hunt my life down and grab it.

I say, 'Don't lose your heart, Rube.' And very clearly, without moving, my brother answers me. He says, 'I'm not tryin' to lose it, Cam. I'm tryin' to find it.

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.

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.

It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.

It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.

It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.

The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.

If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.

Smile with instinct, then lick your wounds in the darkest of dark corners. Trace the scars back to your own fingers and remember them.

It was a style not of perfection, but warmth. Even mistakes had a good feeling about them

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.