Markus Zusak Quotes

The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover. Like smoke from an unseen fire, a line of fire just below the horizon, brushfire or a burning city. Maybe night falls because it’s heavy, a thick curtain pulled up over the eyes. Wool blanket.

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

Twilight fell: The sky turned to a light, dusky purple littered with tiny silver stars.

Why is it called 'after dark' when it really is 'after light'?

Night wasn't so much falling as sharpening its claws.

The sun was set; the night came on apace, And falling dews bewet around the place; The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings, And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings.

the redness had seeped from the day and night was arranging herself around us. Cooling things down, staining and dyeing the evening purple and blue black.

The whisper of the dusk is night shedding its husk.

The sky slowly pulled up its blue dress to reveal night.

We stay this way until twilight colours the window and the hour calls me home

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.

I’ve always felt that night doesn’t fall. Night rises.

Darkness now rose, as daylight sunk, and brought in low'ring Night her shadowy offspring.

The City of New York is like an enormous citadel, a modern Carcassonne. Walking between the magnificent skyscrapers one feels the presence on the fringe of a howling, raging mob, a mob with empty bellies, a mob unshaven and in rags.

The twilight is long fingers and black hair.

Suddenly the day was gone, night came out from under each tree and spread.

Of course, I had a paradigm of a certain city in my head when I wrote these stories, a city that inspired my imagination, but it was only inspiration.

From this distance, in the dimness, the model looked surreal, made up of parts filled with buildings, bordered by long stretches of empty space. It reminded me of the way cities and towns look when you are flying at night. You can't make out much. But the places where people have come together, and stayed, are collections of tiny lights, breaking up the darkness.

The sun was already declining and each of the trees held a premonition of night.

Night had come on like the closing of a great but gentle eye.

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

[I]t seemed as if the streets were absorbed by the sky, and the night were all in the air.