The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.
("The Book Thief")
More Quotes from Markus Zusak:
Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.Markus Zusak
Steam was rising weirdly from his clothes. His hangover was visible. It heaved itself to his shoulders and sat there like a bag of wet cement.
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The notes were born on her breath, and they died at her lips.
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Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. 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.
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She didn't see him watching as he played, having no idea that Hans Hubermann's accordion was a story. In the times ahead, that story would arrive at 33 Himmel Street in the early hours of morning, wearing ruffled shoulders and a shivering jacket. It would carry a suitcase, a book, and two questions. A story. Story after story. Story within story.
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The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.
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