For my final book of 2016, I chose to read one recommended to me by my 13-year old niece Saachi.
When she originally suggested I pick up “The Book Thief,” I didn’t expect much, to be honest. From the title alone, I assumed it would be just another teen novel - entertaining at best and nothing more.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that this book would in fact be one that will stay with me for years to come.
This tale, while technically fiction, tells a very real first-hand account of the Second Great War through the eyes of a pre-adolescent German girl.
This girl would experience the tragedies of war in almost every facet, cementing the cruel consequence that wartime suffering is experienced at its worst by those who wish only for the war to end.
The most striking aspect of this book is that it is narrated by Death himself. And counter to our fears, Death repeatedly exposes his large, soft, and grieving heart.
The dueling perspectives of Death and a Child offer both warm innocence and cold reality in one of humanity’s darkest moments.
Zusak successfully disregards, and in time, invalidates all of the great reasons that countries go to war, and in their place leaves only the devastating results.
And all the while I couldn’t help but relate the symptoms of such a dark time to the growing conquest of populist fear that is spreading across our world today.
Notable Excerpts
A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.
THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN A BOY WHO HATES YOU A boy who loves you.
…one opportunity leads directly to another, just as risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death.
It’s much easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
I guess humans like to watch a little destruction. Sand castles, houses of cards, that’s where they begin. Their great skill is their capacity to escalate.
…proof again of the contradictory human being. So much good, so much evil. Just add water.
No one’s urine smells as good as your own.
Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day. That was the business of hiding a Jew
Even death has a heart.
I do not carry a sickle or scythe. I only wear a hooded black robe when it’s cold. And I don’t have those skull-like facial features you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance. You want to know what I truly look like? I’ll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue
Can a person steal happiness? Or is it just another internal, infernal human trick?
Silence was not quiet or calm, and it was not peace.
For some reason, dying men always ask questions they know the answer to. Perhaps it’s so they can die being right.
“Don’t punish yourself,” she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.