How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.
Markus ZusakMots clés life death breathing
***HERE IS A SMALL FACT***
You are going to die.
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.
Mots clés world death color white
The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
Markus Zusak***A KEY WORD***
Imagined
The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.
Markus ZusakShe 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.
Markus ZusakMots clés 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.
Markus Zusak… 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.
First the colours.
Then the humans.
That’s usually how I see things.
Or at least, how I try.
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