It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
Markus ZusakDon't punish yourself,' she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.
Markus ZusakJust be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.
Markus ZusakA DEFINITION NOT FOUND
IN THE DICTIONARY
Not leaving: an act of trust and love,
often deciphered by children
She slid a book from the shelf and sat with it on the floor.
She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half. Then a chapter.
Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words lttered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be ant of this.
What good were the words?
The book thief stood and waled carefully to the library door.
Clearly, I see it.
I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there.
A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.
It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
Markus ZusakPeople observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
Markus ZusakThe book thief has struck for the first time – the beginning of an illustrious career.
Markus ZusakAs always, one of her books was next to her.
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