The flyscreen door is torn at the edges. Fraying. I open it and knock on the wood. The sound rhymes with my heartbeat.
He was hanging from one of the rafters in a laundry up near Frau Diller's. Another human pendulum. Another clock, stopped.
It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.
Sometimes I imagined how everything looked above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye
They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.
He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.
A GUIDED TOUR OF SUFFERING: To your left, perhaps your right, perhaps even straight ahead, you find a small black room. In it sits a Jew. He is scum. He is starving. He is afraid. Please - try not to look away.
I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.
Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children.
The human child - so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.
When Liesel left that day, she said something with great uneasiness. In translation, two giant words were struggled with, carried on her shoulder, and dropped as a bungling pair at Ilsa Hermann's feet. They fell off sideways as the girl veered with them and could no longer sustain their weight. Together, they sat on the floor, large and loud and clumsy. Two giant words...I'm sorry.
My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.
But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
In the written words of the book thief herself, the journey continued like everything had happened.
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.
The silence was always the greates temptation.
The Gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it.
He was skinny with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness.
Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.
Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.
They were frightened, no question, but they were not afraid of me. It was a fear of messing up and having to face themselves again, and facing the world, and the likes of you.
He's most likely robbing the bank as a paycheck on the world for winning the ugliness prize at his local fete three years running.
A REASSURING ANNOUNCEMENT Please, be calm, despite that previous threat. I am all bluster - I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result.
I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
Of course, I'm being rude. I'm spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don't have much interest in building mystery. 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. There are many things to think of. There is much story.
The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.
When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.
No, I'm not a saint, Sophie. I'm just another stupid human.
Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
In years to come, he would be a giver of bread, not a stealer - proof again of the contradictory human being. So much good, so much evil. Just add water.
More Markus Zusak Quotations (Based on Topics)
Books - World - People - Beauty - Faces - Water - Love - Death & Dying - Woman - Fear - Happiness - Night - Memory - Perfection - Work & Career - Children - Mind - Place - Cities - View All Markus Zusak Quotations
More Markus Zusak Quotations (By Book Titles)
- I am the Messenger
- The Book Thief
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