Friday, 20 December 2013
Book Review: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The story starts with Death describing his favorite sky which is in the color of Chocolate. It then movies into the events that lead to the book thief's first stolen book. It's a gravedigger's handbook, and I imagine that the look on her foster father's face upon discovering it must have seemed close to the painting, Scream. My head certainly imagined his mouth agape at it. The next ones were also quite interesting. By next one, I mean the next stolen books she'll have. It's nice because it's a story that starts before the war, trudges through the war, and ends well after the war. It was Nazi Germany in a whole other perspective. I always imagined that life in the middle of a war was very difficult and quite grim. The book begged to differ. There was happiness even while there was war. I love the dark humor of Death. It's very compatible with my sarcastic philosophical nature. The story had the potential to make me cry. Death had the potential to make me laugh until my breath runs out. I certainly hope that I'm one of those souls who'll stand and look him in the eye when the time comes. I haven't seen the movie. Yet. It'll show here in the Philippines on February and I am certainly hoping to be there on the opening. I'm only praying that it would do the book justice. It was an amazing read. It's haunting and makes me feel like I haven't truly lived a life, even at my age. I love papa's silver eyes. I love the fact that they were called silver, not some light grey or transparent very light blue. They are silver in the book and henceforth, silver in my head. I confess, the book gave me goosebumps. It was not how I expected it to be. It felt like I was there even though I wasn't really there. It was as if I was sitting there with Max painting pages of The Word Shaker or racing in the mud with Rudy or listening to Papa playing the accordion, mama calling me a Saumensch and whacking me with a wooden spoon or with Liesel reading The Shoulder Shrug or The Whistler. I swear, I could smell that murky basement they were crammed into the second time when the bombs really came. It felt like I was under all the rubble then, too, on the next one. The imagery and the words were swirling around me with this one, It made me think a lot. It wasn't the kind of book that made me scream or yell or cheer. It was the kind that made me quiet for a long time. We had our Christmas Party yesterday and I was really quiet. My friends were all wondering what was wrong with me. There was nothing wrong with me. My case wasn't some kind of flu or like that. It was a book. This was the first time I became really quiet after a book. I don't know why I'm quiet. It just felt like screaming or cheering was inappropriate. Quiet was the option left. It's emotionally draining without being overly emotional. It makes you think of really deep things and I thought that was amazing. It was beautiful and I'm reading it all over again. Heil Hitler!