Quotes by Markus Zusak

I could introduce myself properly, but its not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.

They say that war is deaths best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: Get it done, get it done. So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.

A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the way-I like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.)

... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps its so they can die being right.

He killed himself for wanting to live.

Grimly, she realized that clocks dont make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.

Summer came.For the book thief, everything was going nicely.For me, the sky was the color of Jews.When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternitys certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower.

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.

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

The bombs were coming-and so was I.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice. As you may expect, someone has died.

How do you tell if somethings alive? You check for breathing.

Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesnt usually wait for very long.

Deaths Diary: 1942 -It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to just name a few. Forget the scythe, God damn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a holiday.(...) They say that war is deaths best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thing, incessantly. Get it done, get it done. So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss however, does not thank you. He asks for more.

I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out.

The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

For two days I went about my business. I travelled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.

Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?