THE BOOK THIEF
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Phew!! Finally done with this one... After an un-put-downable "THE KITE RUNNER", Markus Zusak's literary genius "THE BOOK THIEF" was the next one on my list. I was still under the "KITE RUNNER-HANG-OVER" as I like to call it, when I picked up this one from the list of piling unread books in my collection. If you think that the title is captivating, then I suggest you start reading this book to understand what "captivating" means...
We've all read THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK, NIGHT and other books that give us an insight into the Nazi Germany of Hitler. This book visits Germany in that era, through the eyes of one force that was widely prevalent then-- DEATH. The author appropriately uses Death to narrate the events unfolding in the life of 9-year old Liesel Meminger. Coz death travelled everywhere.
Death has its first encounter with Liesel in a train on which she is travelling with her mother and her brother, to a foster home at Himmel Street. Death takes away her brother, but is somehow transfixed by Liesel. It is then that Liesel, the book thief, does her first act of thievery. She picks up a book from the graveyard, thus starting on a journey of multiple book stealing sessions.
Her foster parents are good to her. Hans Hubermann, her foster father helps her to learn how to read and is the most comforting force in her life. Rosa, her foster mother, is a strict woman who swears a lot. But loves her nevertheless. Apart from them, she find solace in her best friend Rudy, who is a huge fan of Jesse Owens and wants to emulate him. There is also a jew named Max who is hidden by the Hubermanns in their basement, with whom Liesel forges brotherly attatchment.
The Book Thief is an amazing read for anyone. It gives a complete different perspective of the Nazi Germany, though still painting the grim pictures of that era. It still gives you hope amids despair and contains some really amazing moments. Its a definite must read for all book lovers. MUST BUY!!!!
Excerpts
DEATH AND CHOCOLATE
First the colors.
Then the humans.
That's usually how I see things.
Or at least, how I try.
***HERE IS A SMALL FACT ***
You are going to die.
I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
***Reaction to the ***AFOREMENTIONED fact
Does this worry you?I
urge you--don't be afraid.
I'm nothing if not fair.
--Of course, an introduction.A beginning.
Where are my manners?I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.At that moment, you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up). You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps.The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see--the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.
***A SMALL THEORY ***
People 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-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.
As I've been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. It helps me cope, considering the length of time I've been performing this job. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety? The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make a conscious, deliberate decision--to make distraction my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colors.Still, it's possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does he need distraction from?Which brings me to my next point.It's the leftover humans.The survivors.They're the ones I can't stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It's the story of one of those perpetual survivors--an expert at being left behind.It's just a small story really, about, among other things:
* A girl
* Some words
* An accordionist
* Some fanatical Germans
* A Jewish fist fighter
* And quite a lot of thievery
I saw the book thief three times.
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